Slytherin Pride
by Rhysenn
Summary: What if the Sorting Hat had made a different decision? In this series, Harry experiences life in Slytherin, which is decidedly more colourful given the presence of the inimitable Draco Malfoy. It has been foretold -- is Harry destined for a path of dubiou
1. The Sorting Hat

  
Slytherin Pride  
  
Chapter 1: The Sorting Hat  
  
  
"Potter, Harry!" came Professor McGonagall's crisp voice.  
  
_Harry Potter?_ A twitter of excitement coursed through the Great Hall as students craned their necks forward in eager anticipation. _Harry Potter, did she say?_ All of a sudden every eye was riveted on the black-haired boy as he slowly approached the stool on which the Sorting Hat sat.  
  
Harry glanced around nervously, although he quickly averted his eyes to the floor when he saw everyone staring at him. He walked toward the stool, picked up the frayed, patched hat, and placed it over his own head. It flopped over his eyes, engulfing him in darkness.  
  
'Hmm,' said a small voice in his ear. 'Difficult. Very difficult. Plenty of courage, I see, and not a bad mind either. There's talent, oh my goodness, yes — and a nice thirst to prove yourself, now that's interesting... So where shall I put you?'  
  
Harry gripped the edges of the stool. _Not Slytherin_, he thought, _not Slytherin_.  
  
'Not Slytherin, eh?' said the small voice. 'Why not? You could be great, very great — it's all here in your head, you know.'  
  
_What?_ Harry opened his eyes and blinked, although he couldn't really tell the difference since it was pitch dark inside the hat. _Me, great?_  
  
'Yep,' the voice said, sounding very convinced. 'And for sure, Slytherin will help you on your way to greatness. Your mind's a lot more complex than the others, much harder to decide — but yes, I think that where you belong is **SLYTHERIN**!'  
  
Harry heard the Hat shout out the last word to the whole Hall, and there was a strange silence ringing in his ears as he slowly removed the Hat. The light from the thousands of candles floating in the Hall stung his eyes, and Harry blinked a couple of times to clear his vision. A sea of stunned faces swam into view, and for a moment, the entire Hall was silent.  
  
Then, cheers and whistles erupted from the Slytherin table, loud whoops as the Slytherins got to their feet and clapped. The other tables maintained a subdued silence, and even the teachers sitting along the High Table seemed too shocked to react. Dumbledore was looking thoughtfully down at Harry, a pensive expression replacing his usual benign smile.  
  
Harry looked around self-consciously — everyone was still watching his every move. He looked behind him, and saw Ron Weasley, who was waiting for his turn to be Sorted. Ron was staring at him, looking flabbergasted, an expression of disbelief on his face. Harry offered him a strained smile, but Ron didn't smile back.  
  
Harry wanted to put the Hat back on and ask it to change its mind, or at least reconsider the matter, but he knew it wouldn't be any use. There was nothing he could do now. Harry lowered his eyes to the floor dejectedly and started toward the Slytherin table.   
  
On his way to the Slytherin table, Harry glanced at the students seated at the other tables — they were all watching him, looking dumbfounded. Hushed whispers followed him as he paced over and sat down at the Slytherin table, feeling miserable. The looks people were giving him reminded him of his old school, where everyone avoided him because of Dudley's gang.  
  
Professor McGonagall seemed quite astounded by the Sorting Hat's decision as well. She looked incredulously after Harry as he went to sit with the Slytherins, and fumbled slightly with the long roll of parchment in her hands as she tried to find the place where she'd left off. "Um — yes, Turpin, Lisa."  
  
Lisa Turpin became a Ravenclaw, and Ron Weasley's turn was next. Harry waited as the Sorting Hat deliberated for a moment before declaring Ron a Gryffindor. Harry's heart sank, and he morosely watched as Ron hurried over to the Gryffindor table, looking extremely relieved. Ron's red-haired twin brothers enthusiastically pounded him on the back, congratulating him.  
  
"Well, well, I'd never have guessed, Potter," came a drawling voice next to Harry.  
  
Harry turned around to find Draco Malfoy sitting next to him, a smug grin on his face. The other boy carelessly ran a hand through his blond hair, giving Harry a sideways, appraising sort of look. "I'd never have thought you had it in you, Potter, to become a Slytherin."  
  
"And I'm not exactly _proud_ of it, all right?" Harry shot back irritably. He didn't like the gloating expression on Malfoy's face. He cast a glance around, and saw students from Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff, the two closest tables, still staring at him. "From the looks of it, everyone else doesn't think so either — maybe there's been a mistake." Harry sounded hopeful.  
  
Draco shook his head. "The Sorting Hat's never been wrong. They've used it for ages, and it never changes its decision." Draco tossed his head arrogantly. "But Slytherin's the best House, anyway, everyone knows that."  
  
"'Those cunning folk use any means to achieve their ends' doesn't exactly sound very complimentary," Harry remarked dryly. He remembered what Hagrid had told him as well: _There's not a single witch or wizard who went bad who wasn't in Slytherin. You-Know-Who was one.  
_  
_What would Hagrid say?_ Harry wondered sadly. _What would he say when he finds out I'm in Slytherin?_  
  
Harry's glance strayed over to the Gryffindor table almost wistfully. He saw Ron sitting next to the girl with curly brown hair, Hermione Granger. She was deep in conversation with Percy the Prefect, and seemed oblivious to everything else. Ron happened to look up suddenly, and his eyes met Harry's and held for a moment.   
  
Ron looked away.  
  
Draco had been watching Harry all this time. "Not still pining after that Weasley, are you?" he asked shrewdly, his grey eyes narrowing.   
  
Harry didn't answer as he turned his eyes away from the Gryffindor Table. The truth was, he was rather sad that he hadn't gotten into Gryffindor, since the noblest and bravest went there. General consensus was that Gryffindor was the most popular House, although Slytherin had taken top honours for the House Cup and the Quidditch Cup in recent years.  
  
_Perhaps the Hat is right_, Harry mused. _Slytherin has the aptitude for greatness — but that's not everything, is it?_  
  
Draco noticed the ponderous expression on Harry's face, and shot him another look. "Remember what I told you, Potter," he said slowly, "some wizarding families are much better than others. You don't want to go mixing with peasants like Weasley — if not for anything, it's bad for your image."  
  
"Ron's a nice person," Harry said defensively, glaring at Draco. "So what if his family hasn't got a lot of money?"  
  
"Hasn't got _any_ money is more like it," Draco corrected disdainfully. "Look at his robes — they're all hand-me-downs from his older brothers. His father works at the Ministry, but they're so poor that a few times he even had to ask for a salary advance so his family won't go hungry."   
  
"How do you know that?" Harry asked suspiciously.  
  
"My father holds a senior position in the Ministry," Draco answered proudly. "He's on the Executive Committee — got good connections all round — he's close friends with the Minister of Magic Cornelius Fudge, you know."  
  
Harry had to admit that it did sound rather impressive, although he simply offered Draco a curt nod. He still had his reservations about Slytherins, and they weren't going to change over a few words with Malfoy. Didn't Ron say that Malfoy's dad used to be Voldemort's supporter, although he came back from the Dark side after the Dark Lord fell? Harry lapsed back into his conflicting thoughts, mostly still thinking about the Sorting Hat's decision.  
  
Draco gave Harry a sharp look, feeling exasperated. _He's every inch a Gryffindor_, Draco thought, disgusted. _Maybe Potter's right — the Hat's lost a few too many threads over the years, it needs mending.   
_  
Draco remembered the first time he'd seen Harry — at Madam Malkin's. One look at him and Draco knew this boy was a Gryffindor, and that's why he'd asked Harry if he knew which house he was going to be in. The way Harry talked, the way he moved — everything added up to a true blue Gryffindor, in Draco's opinion, and Draco liked to think he was always right. But then again, Draco had pegged that bumbling fool with the fat toad (what was his name again? Nate Longbottom?) as a Hufflepuff, but he turned out to be in Gryffindor. Maybe he wasn't _that_ good a guesser, after all.  
  
Harry was still moodily pushing his food around his plate, looking sullen and dejected, and Draco gave up trying to engage him in conversation. Crabbe and Goyle weren't exactly very meaningful conversationalists either, so Draco decided to talk to the boy opposite him instead, a wiry kid who strongly resembled a prairie dog.   
  
Harry looked down at his plate. _Slytherin. I'm in Slytherin._ To tell the truth, the fact hadn't quite sunk in with Harry yet. He'd never really given it a thought, which house he would be in — he'd been worrying too much about how his non-wizarding upbringing would affect his schoolwork. Harry wondered which house his parents had been in — probably not Slytherin, Harry thought gloomily. Probably Gryffindor, _'where dwell the brave at heart'_. He recalled another verse from the Sorting Hat's song:  
  
_Or perhaps in Slytherin  
You'll make your real friends...  
_  
Harry cast a sidelong glance at Draco Malfoy, who was brandishing a roast chicken drumstick at another boy across the table whom he was arguing with.   
  
No way.  
  
Harry sighed, picked up his fork and knife and started cutting up his piece of roast beef. Things weren't going at all as he had hoped. Maybe he could go and talk to Professor Dumbledore about this, after the feast. Maybe ask for a transfer.  
  
Harry glanced up at the High Table, where the teachers were all seated and busily eating. He suddenly noticed one of the teachers looking straight at him. He had greasy black hair and an angular, sallow face, with a hooked nose and a hard, menacing expression in his black eyes. The hostility in his stare was crystal clear.  
  
Harry wilted slightly under the weight of his glare, and looked away. _Great, I've just started school and teachers are already disliking me.   
_  
He nudged Malfoy, who was sitting next to him, still debating furiously with the other boy across him. "Who's that teacher over there, with the black hair and green robes?"  
  
Malfoy paused long enough to glance over at the High Table, where Harry was pointing. "Oh, that's Snape. He teaches Potions, I think, and he's our Head of House too." Draco went back to his heated discussion with the other boy, and from snatches of conversation Harry gathered that they were arguing about Quidditch flying styles and which strategies were the best.  
  
Harry groaned inwardly. First he had been Sorted into Slytherin, the least popular of the Houses. Now, that teacher who obviously hated him for a reason that Harry had no inkling of was Slytherin's Head of House. Everything seemed to be going wrong.  
  
But still, Harry comforted himself, this is tons better than being back with the Dursleys. He glanced at the table full of Slytherins — they didn't look like the most friendly lot, but certainly they weren't downright horrible and nasty like Dudley. Besides, if not for anything, they were — _his_ kind, like Hagrid had said. A little way down the table, a girl caught his eye and gave him a smile. Harry returned a half-hearted grin, and tried to cheer himself up a little.   
  
Slytherin couldn't be all that bad.   
  
"You bastard!" Draco suddenly yelled, standing up abruptly and seizing the boy across the table by his collar. The other boy, who was more diminutive in size, sputtered and choked. Draco was shouting, "How _dare_ you! How about _your_ father, Wilkins? He's in the Department of Disposal Of Magical Toxins — in other words, _the garbage collectors_!"  
  
Harry quickly slid out of his seat as Malfoy wrestled Wilkins to the ground in a flurry of limbs. Plates crashed to the floor and gravy sloshed everywhere, and a flying fork narrowly missed Harry as he darted out of its path just in time. He retreated a few steps from the Slytherin table, unnoticed as everyone's attention was fixed on the brawl. Harry took one last glance at them — Malfoy seemed to have the upper hand, unsurprisingly — before quietly slipping out of the Great Hall.   
  
Even from outside, he could hear the angry voices from within — sharper tones indicated that the teachers had arrived on the scene to break up the fight. Harry grinned in spite of himself as he recalled how absurd Malfoy and Wilkins looked, their faces and robes smeared with cream cakes and pudding. It was ridiculously amusing.  
  
Yes, Harry mused thoughtfully, maybe Slytherin wasn't that bad, after all.  
  
  


* * * * * * *

  
  
Lucius Malfoy's eyes glittered maliciously as he scanned the letter in his hand once again. It was from Draco, and actually ran for two pages of parchment, although only one sentence in the middle of the first page demanded Lucius' attention. The name had caught his eye as he casually skimmed the contents of the letter, and his heart had actually skipped a beat. He blinked twice, then re-read the sentence again, almost in disbelief:  
  
_...something rather interesting, Father — Harry Potter is in Slytherin, too.  
_  
Lucius quickly browsed through the remainder of the letter, his eyes searching for Harry Potter's name, but it didn't occur again. Not bothering to read the rest of Draco's letter, he tore off the first page, folded it carefully and placed it in his pocket, and strode out of his study.  
  
_Very interesting indeed_, Lucius thought, and a vicious smile twisted his thin lips. He walked resolutely down the pearl-white marble stairs, his black boots sounding sharply against the smooth, polished floor.   
  
On his way down he passed Narcissa, who had been tending to her personal garden outside. That garden was Narcissa's pride and joy — she weeded and watered it by herself, forbidding the house-elves to come anywhere near her beloved patch. In her little garden she grew the simplest yet most beautiful flowers — roses, carnations, sunflowers, daffodils... a refreshing variety, in contrast with the carnivorous, flesh-eating plants that lined the hedges surrounding Malfoy Manor. Although Lucius was disapproving of her hobby, Narcissa refused to give it up, and the flora and fauna blossomed verdantly under her tender, painstaking care.  
  
Narcissa noticed the letter grasped in Lucius' hands, and her blue eyes brightened. "A letter from Draco?" she asked in a hopeful tone. "What did he say?"  
  
"Nothing much," Lucius replied curtly, not even bothering to slow his pace. If he had actually read the remainder of Draco's letter, he'd have seen that three-quarters of the second page was addressed to Narcissa. "He's very busy, no time to write long letters."  
  
Narcissa looked disappointed, but still persisted. "Did he say how he likes it at Hogwarts? Is he happy there?"  
  
"Yes, yes, of course he is," Lucius waved his hand dismissively. "Now, I have some important business to attend to, Narcissa, I'd like to be left alone for the rest of the day. I'll be in the drawing room — see to it that I am not disturbed." Without even waiting for a reply from his wife, Lucius turned on his heel and strode off.  
  
A few more staircases and corridors led Lucius straight to the drawing room, and he closed the heavy oak doors behind him. "_Arceostium_," he muttered, touching his wand to the doorknob, and the bolts smoothly slid into place.  
  
Lucius stopped short, his eyes darting around the drawing room. Finally he walked over to the centre of the room and pulled back the thick Persian carpet draped across the floor, revealing a trapdoor. It was carefully camouflaged, being the same colour as the surrounding floorboards. Opening it and reaching deep inside, Lucius groped around for a few moments before retrieving a small dusty vial filled with a silvery black powder.  
  
Straightening, he walked over to the fireplace, the vial still clasped in his left hand. He pointed his wand at the fireplace, and it immediately ignited in a blazing vermilion flame. Lucius sank to his knees in front of the crackling fire, feeling the heat radiating in waves against his face.   
  
This was magic at its most powerful, one of the Darkest Arts ever performed. This was a bond between a master and his servant, forged in a covenant of blood, and no matter how far apart they were, as long as they both lived, this channel of communication still existed.   
  
And Lucius knew, somewhere out there, his Master was still alive.  
  
Did he still remember how to do this? Lucius closed his eyes, and carefully unscrewed the vial. Of course he did. Some things he could never forget.  
  
He took a pinch of the silvery black powder between his trembling fingers, and threw it into the flames. It showered down into the fire like glittering dust, and the flame immediately glowed rich purple, burning brighter and more fiercely than before.  
  
Lucius took out a small knife, then extended his left arm, pulling back his sleeves. The Dark Mark was still visible, very slightly faded, but still clear and stark against his pale skin. Very carefully, Lucius pressed the edge of the knife against the Mark, then ran the blade over the length of the livid skull symbol. Blood glistened forth, red and fresh, and Lucius held his arm above the purple flames, allowing his blood to drip into the fire. The tongues of fire danced higher, fuelled by the blood, and licked briefly at his exposed flesh. Lucius winced and bit his lip, but forced himself not to pull back.  
  
Lucius closed his eyes, feeling a certain familiar chill creeping into his mind, overriding the pain. It was an intangible presence, which felt distant yet intimate at the same time.  
  
_Master,_ Lucius spoke in his mind. Without opening his eyes, he reached into his pocket, drew out Draco's letter and then tossed it into the flames, which consumed the parchment eagerly. _I have something for you._  
  
Lucius waited. The fire seemed to be more subdued now, and it was burning with a steady, controlled energy. There was no response for a very long time, and he started to wonder if he had done it correctly. Silence tunnelled through his mind, nothing but the eerie, inarticulate howl of a desert wind through a barren landscape.  
  
But he still waited.  
  
And finally, he heard a voice, hoarse and rasping, but nonetheless the voice of his Master.  
  
_Harry Potter — in Slytherin. _The voice sounded almost thoughtful.   
  
_Yes, Master,_ Lucius replied, relieved.   
  
Another silence ensued. Lucius found himself holding his breath in anticipation. Finally —  
  
_We will wait, _said the voice, cold and hollow like the sound of nightmares. _The time will come. And when it does, you, Lucius, you will be able to assist me in my return, and you will be rewarded beyond your dreams._  
  
_Yes, my Lord,_ Lucius answered fervently, feeling a tingling shiver course down his spine. _I am your servant. _  
  
_Wait, _the voice commanded again, achieving an authoritative tone even in its formless state. _Just a few years more, and Harry Potter will be ours for the taking.   
_  
_We will kill him, Master? _Lucius inquired, his mind racing in expectation.  
  
But he received no reply, and the flames of purple gradually dissolved back into orange.   
  
Lucius shakily reached out for his wand and extinguished the fire. He remained on his knees, in front of the charred fireplace, the burnt skin on his left arm raw and pulsing, but he ignored the pain. As he got to his feet, Lucius was overcome with a wave of dizziness, but his Master's words still echoed clearly through his mind.  
  
_We will wait._  
  
Lucius unsteadily made his way over to his armchair, and sank into it, exhausted.   
  
_The time will come._   
  
  
  
~~~  
  



	2. An Unlikely Pair

  
A/N: The story has skipped ahead several years — our heroes are now in their sixth year at Hogwarts. The reason being, of course, a lot of the interesting stuff they're going to get up to will never have been able to be perpetrated by anyone younger than sixteen years old.   
  


* * *

  
  
Slytherin Pride  
  
Chapter 2: An Unlikely Pair  
  
  
"_You?_ You, Quidditch captain, Malfoy?"   
  
"But of course." Draco sounded smug, his tone of voice superior. "May the best player lead the team."  
  
Harry snorted. "Come _on._ You know the only reason you're captain is because Snape doesn't like me." He sounded resentful. "This is blatant favouritism — _I'm_ the Seeker! You're only the Chaser — _I_ should be the Slytherin captain!"  
  
Draco flashed him an infuriating smile, then waved his wand casually, instantly conjuring something in the palm of his hand, which looked suspiciously like fruit. He offered it to Harry.   
  
"Care for some grapes, Potter?" he drawled. "They're pretty sour."  
  
Harry glared at Draco. "Shut up." He pointed his wand at the grapes in Draco's hand and muttered a spell under his breath — the bunch of purple fruit promptly exploded violently with a horrible squelching noise. Draco let out a yell and leapt backwards too late; Harry himself didn't manage to retreat in time either, and both of them were drenched in freshly-squeezed grape juice.   
  
"Yeuch!" Draco glanced down at his ruined robes in disgust, then shot Harry a withering glare. "What the hell! These are my newest set of robes, you dumb git!" Draco's wand was out again in a flourish — he aimed at Harry and yelled an unfamiliar spell that Harry had never heard of.   
  
With a Seeker's reflexes, Harry dived out of harm's way — the spell whizzed right past him like a silver Bludger and hit a startled third-year student just coming around the bend. Harry's head spun around to look at the unlucky victim, and a shocked grey donkey stood staring back at him.  
  
"Damn!" Draco shouted, scrambling over. "See what you've done, Potter!" He swore creatively again as donkey recovered from its surprise, took one look at itself and started braying loudly in panic.  
  
"Remind me to stand still next time you want to hex me, then," Harry said sarcastically, although he glanced anxiously along the corridor — students were beginning to appear around the corner and were gawking at the donkey standing in the middle of the path. Draco was trying to get near it without getting kicked, and was yelling a string of expletives at the recalcitrant beast. Harry thought Draco looked like he was doing a very ungainful sort of tap-dance.  
  
"What are you _doing_, Malfoy?" Harry hollered, hastily ducking out of the way as the animal charged toward him. Screams sounded behind Harry as other students scattered out of the path of the rampaging donkey. "Turn it _back_, for god's sakes! Don't you know the reversal spell?"  
  
"Of course I do," Draco snapped, coming up next to Harry, his face flushed from exertion. He ran a hand through his blond hair, which was still slick with grape juice, but that was the least of his worries at the moment. "Get the damn donkey to stand still so I can reverse the spell!"  
  
"And how am I supposed to do that?" Harry retorted, breaking into a run after the donkey, Draco close beside him.  
  
"Maybe if you lie down in front of it, it'll trip over you and get knocked out," Draco suggested. "Or if you're lucky that donkey's actually Ginny Weasley — look, it's even got a red mane — then all you'll have to do is ask it out to dinner and it'll come over to lick your hand."  
  
"Shut _up_." Harry shot him a very sharp look as they raced after the donkey, which was cantering toward the library, still braying frantically at the top of its voice. Draco never failed to miss an opportunity to rib him about Ginny, Ron Weasley's sister from Gryffindor, who had been quite taken by Harry ever since they'd met.   
  
"If we get into trouble because of this, Malfoy —" Harry started warningly, but trouble caught up with them before he could even finish his sentence.  
  
"POTTER! MALFOY! WHAT IS GOING ON?!"   
  
Harry groaned inwardly as he instantly recognised Professor McGonagall's crisp voice. He cast a glance over his shoulder and saw the Transfiguration teacher hurrying over to them, her face flushed with anger. From the corner of his other eye Harry saw Draco furtively shoo the donkey out of sight. He tried to offer her the best innocent smile he could muster.   
  
Professor McGonagall drew to a halt in front of them, and suspiciously looked over Draco's shoulder at the flickering tail attached to a grey rump, all that was visible of the donkey.   
  
"Is that — is that a donkey, Potter?" McGonagall asked sharply, although she was unable to hide the astonishment from her voice.   
  
For once, Harry didn't know how to answer. Draco managed a sheepish grin, and said, "It's Potter's new pet, Professor."  
  
Professor McGonagall looked incredulous. "Might I remind you, Potter, no hoofed animals are allowed on the school grounds, and Mr Malfoy, stop trying to push the beast behind the pillar, I can already see it very clearly from where I stand." Her eyes narrowed. "Are you sure that animal isn't the result of a spell of some sort?"  
  
"No, Professor, of course not," Harry answered, too quickly. He shuffled backwards, hoping that the donkey had the sense to run away, but it hadn't — it was starting to ruminate on Draco's robes. Draco swatted angrily at it and cuffed it across its ears, making it bray loudly in protest.  
  
McGonagall shot Harry a distrusting look. "I've never seen a donkey with a red mane, Potter," she said, sidestepping Harry to have a better view of the donkey. Draco had given up trying to prod it with his wand — nothing was more incriminating than the donkey turning back into a human right in front of McGonagall's eyes.  
  
Again, Harry found himself tongue-tied, and Draco spoke up to cover for him.  
  
"It's from Potter's secret admirer, Professor — dyed red to represent undying love." Draco said, managing the pun with a straight face. Harry almost gagged.  
  
"We'll see about that, then." McGonagall raised her wand, pointed it at the fidgeting donkey and uttered, "_Finite Incantatem!_"  
  
"Oops," Draco whispered under his breath, loud enough for Harry to hear.  
  
With a rather unflattering *phump* the donkey disappeared, and in its place a frazzled boy sat on the floor, his glasses askew, his red hair in a state of disarray. He looked positively traumatised as he stared up at Professor McGonagall, who stared back at the boy in horror before turning her glare on Harry and Draco.  
  
"_Fifty points from Slytherin!_" McGonagall shrieked, looking thoroughly enraged. She took one more appalled glance at the unfortunate boy, and continued her furious tirade. "This is preposterous! Potter and Malfoy, you two have caused enough trouble before, but this is —" words failed her for a moment, and she angrily jabbed a forefinger in the boy's direction. "This is positively outrageous! I am certainly _not_ proud that my students are using Transfiguration in such a manner! Which one of you did this?"  
  
"He did," Harry and Draco said together.   
  
McGonagall gave them an agonised look, then seized them both firmly by the arm. "Detention for both of you," she said grimly, and signalled for some students standing nearby to take the boy to the hospital wing. "And I'll be sure to speak to Professor Snape about this."  
  
  


* * * * * * *

  
  
"You tried to turn me into a _donkey?_" Harry said furiously, rounding on Draco.  
  
Draco looked up calmly from the pumpkin patch he was weeding. "Yep. You're an ass. Get it?"  
  
"Very funny. Great sense of humour you have."  
  
"Glad you appreciate it."  
  
"The hell I do. I'll appreciate it a lot more if your head exploded and fertilised this pumpkin patch with whatever little brain matter you have up there."  
  
"Now you're just being a smart ass, too. Keep it up, Potter, you'll be the wittiest mule in the herd."  
  
"Go to hell, Malfoy." Harry glared at Draco, who managed a simpering smile in return. "It's your fault that we're here, so just shut up and weed."  
  
Harry sighed as he turned away, his gloved hands filled with soggy compost as he spread the fertiliser over the damp soil. This was their detention, the punishment for their donkey antics — _Malfoy's_ donkey antics, to be specific. Harry had absolutely nothing to do with it, accept for the fact that he was supposed to turn into a donkey instead of that unfortunate boy.  
  
This wasn't an uncommon occurrence at all. Harry couldn't count the number of times he and Malfoy had served detention together — Filch had even announced that any more polishing of the trophies would dissolve the top layer of metal, the reason why they'd been sent out to work on Hagrid's pumpkin patch instead.   
  
Harry cast a sidelong glance at Malfoy, and caught him poking listlessly at a slug with his wand. Of course, nothing happened — there was a Magic Repelling Spell temporarily placed on the patch to ensure that all the work was done without the help of magic.   
  
"Saying hello to your relative, Malfoy?" Harry remarked scathingly.   
  
Draco looked up and scowled at him. "Smart ass."  
  
Harry grinned and returned to his work. It was a constant competition between them — always had been. They'd sparred and fought innumerable times over the past five years, and were probably the most infamous havoc-wreckers in Hogwarts, after the Weasley twins. Of course, they almost always ended up in trouble together, but it was a victory for one when the other party was innocently punished. Such was the volatile balance of Harry's relationship with Draco over the years — always rivals, sometimes co-conspirators, rarely friends, and even grudgingly so.   
  
No, Harry decided, Draco wasn't his _friend._ Friends did not send as birthday presents parcels that exploded in endless streams of bats — Malfoy did that for Harry's last birthday. (Lucky for Harry, Dudley opened it out of curiosity and ended up blind for a week when he grabbed a bat that attacked his nose and in retaliation, it squirted some toxic fluid into his eyes.)   
  
Harry realised that he did spend most of his time with Draco, though not by choice — they were both in the Slytherin Quidditch team, and practice was almost every evening, and other than that, he and Malfoy took the same classes, slept in the same dorm, and sat at the same table in the Great Hall. They constantly bickered and sniped at each other, and their rivalry often got rather — explosive, literally. Harry was excellent at hexes and spellwork, and Draco was more than a worthy match for him — their duels often ended a dozen other people up in the hospital wing.  
  
"Are you upgrading your broom?" Draco's voice interrupted Harry's thoughts.   
  
Harry turned. "What?"  
  
"Your broom," Draco repeated. A tone of boastfulness crept into his voice. "My father's got me the latest Firebolt 2000 — just out this summer."  
  
Harry had a Firebolt — he'd bought it with the money his parents had left him. Hagrid had taken him down to Gringotts to get the gold two summers ago, since Harry didn't know how to get to his vault. Ever since he'd been put in Slytherin, Hagrid had still been on fairly cordial terms with Harry, but had kept his distance unless necessary. Harry had never gone down to Hagrid's hut to visit him before, although he'd seen a few Gryffindors, most often Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger, heading in that direction during their free time.  
  
"Why do _you_ need a Firebolt 2000?" Harry asked caustically. "You're not even the Seeker." He grinned inwardly as he saw Draco's grey eyes narrow. This was one of the few edges he had over Malfoy, and Harry never let up a chance to torment him about having the position which Draco coveted most.   
  
"I could knock you off the team, you know — I'm Quidditch captain now." Draco glared daggers at Harry.  
  
Harry gave him a maddeningly smug smile. "No you can't. For Slytherin's sake, even Snape won't let you — remember what happened at that match against Ravenclaw last year? They let you fill in as the Seeker because I was injured, and oh, it was your best performance yet, Draco."   
  
Draco's pale cheeks blushed with a tinge of pink. "Shut up, Potter."  
  
Harry dissolved into guffaws at the recollection of it. "Once again, Malfoy —" he said slowly, as if talking to a three-year-old, and held up his left hand. "Snitch." He put up his other hand. "Filch." Harry grinned. "Ends with the same two letters, but they're _entirely_ different things."  
  
"Shut up," Draco said again. He looked distinctly ruffled by the mention of the incident. "How was I supposed to know that the stupid goon was putting up Christmas decorations while the match was going on? He _had_ to climb the tree and start draping tinsel on the branches — it was very cloudy, and so when I saw something glittering I went for it!" Draco looked very annoyed. "It's not my fault! And how the hell did you know about it, anyway? You were in the hospital wing!"  
  
"Wilkins lent me his Omnioculars — he certainly found it very amusing — so I watched the whole match from my bed." Harry smirked. Wilkins was another Slytherin sixth-year, and he and Malfoy had been bitter enemies ever since a brawl erupted between them on their first day at school during the feast in the Great Hall.   
  
Draco called Wilkins a very unpleasant name, and Harry chortled. "But anyway, I had Filch for company for the next two days after the match, and he was more than willing to tell anyone who'd listen his version of the story. Mind, I got the extended dance remix of 'Draco Malfoy is a big blind git', with three choruses of 'He should be banned from flying for the rest of his life'."  
  
Even Draco couldn't suppress a small smile at this. "Well he deserved it," he huffed with dignity. "He broke the handle of my broom, did you know?"  
  
"And you stabbed him in the sternum and broke three of his ribs," Harry put in dryly. "But I'm sure you came off worse in the collision, yes."  
  
"Next match is against Gryffindor," Draco reminded Harry. "Better make sure we steamroller those goody-two-shoes."  
  
"We will," Harry said, somewhat complacently. Slytherin had been Quidditch champion for the past ten years, at least — and ever since Harry became their Seeker in his second year, they'd never lost a single match. This was probably the only reason why Snape (very grudgingly) allowed him to stay on the Slytherin team. For some reason unknown to Harry, Snape hated his guts even though Harry was quite the star of Slytherin. _Probably jealous,_ Harry concluded. _Snape dotes on Malfoy, he's just bummed that I'm better than he is._  
  
"Weasley's on the team, you know," Draco said, with no small hint of disdain. He let out a derisive laugh. "He's playing Beater, I think — I'll have quite a time of running circles around him on his — Cleansweep Five."   
  
"Ron's on the team?" Harry looked up, surprised. He knew that Ron's twin brothers had been Beaters for Gryffindor, and objectively, they were both pretty good although the rest of the team was mediocre. But they'd graduated from Hogwarts last year. "Probably taking over from his brothers, then."  
  
"So much for a meritocracy," Draco sneered. "Looks like a place on the Gryffindor team is based on _inheritance_, not talent. Don't blame them, really, talent's quite a scarce quality there."  
  
Harry didn't answer. He hadn't really spoken to Ron in a long time — probably the longest conversation they had since their first chat on the Hogwarts Express was, 'Ron — Snape wants you to see him about your detention', or 'Harry, McGonagall said to meet her about your Transfiguration homework'. Other than that, all they exchanged were brief, strained smiles before they both hastily looked away. Malfoy often gleefully took to making fun of Ron, but Harry never joined in.  
  
Draco again noticed Harry's discreet silence. "What is _with_ you, Potter?" he asked, sounding exasperated. "What've you got going for Weasley, anyway?"  
  
"Nothing." Harry threw Draco a sharp look. "It's just that he's not all that bad a person, okay? So quit being so horrible to him."  
  
"He's a _Gryffindor_, Harry!" Draco raised his eyes heavenward. "And he's poor as a church mouse and his family's rubbish. His dad's a real twat, you know — my father says so."  
  
"And I'm sure _his_ dad thinks likewise of your father," Harry stated reasonably. The Malfoy-Weasley hostility was well-publicised in the wizarding community.  
  
"Only difference is, my dad can get Weasley's sacked," Draco pointed out haughtily. "In fact, he's talked of it, but having the Weasleys starve to death is really too humane a way to go."  
  
"Draco!" Harry said sharply, looked genuinely shocked. "That's downright nasty, Malfoy, stop it."   
  
"Really, Harry!" Draco looked very irritated. He seemed intent on trying to wring an insult to Ron out of Harry. "You're being a real wuss about it, you know. Weasley's Gryffindor — we're Slytherin — and that's all there is to it." Draco shot Harry a withering look, then added sarcastically, "If you like him so much, why don't you catch the Snitch and give it to him wrapped in your yellow polka-dot boxers at the next Quid—OUCH!"  
  
Harry had flung his wand at Draco, and it hit him hard on the side of his face. Draco glared back at him, rubbing his cheek with an injured look. "Oh, really smart, Harry, you can't use magic, so hey, just use the wand instead."  
  
"I do not _like_ Ron, okay?" Harry said furiously, glowering at Draco. "I just think he's an okay chap, and I'm sick of you whinging on about him all the time. And —" Harry drew himself up in a dignified sort of way, "those horrid boxers were a Christmas gift from Millicent Bulstrode, who I believe gave _you _black lacy briefs for _your_ present."  
  
"Yeah, and I even agreed to model it for her, too," Draco said with a straight face.   
  
Harry spluttered. "You _what?!_"  
  
"What do you think I was doing all Christmas Eve? Just wanted to spread the yuletide cheer, that's all."  
  
Harry stared at Draco in disbelief. "That is gross," he said weakly.  
  
"She even took photos — wanna see them?"  
  
"DRACO!"   
  
Draco burst out laughing. "Oh come _on_, Harry. I wouldn't be caught dead in one of those." He made a face. "Especially not alone in a room with _her_ —" he shuddered, "I think that'll be tantamount to rape, it will."  
  
"You're more than a little bit crazy, you know that, Malfoy?"  
  
Draco raised his chin haughtily. "I like to think of it as misunderstood brilliance."  
  
"Or more like psychotic autism with a generous voyeuristic flavour."  
  
"Same thing."  
  
"And I forgot to add the twisted sense of humour, too."  
  
"No wonder the girls love me." Draco shook his head in mock wonderment.  
  
Harry couldn't withhold a bark of laughter. "Yeah, real hot chicks — more like chickens, really — such as Millicent Bulstrode. Might I remind you that of all the 'bare necessity' gifts from her minimalist-themed Christmas shopping list, you got the raciest present of all."  
  
"Really, now?" Draco arched his eyebrow suggestively. "She did say that she wanted to give you a thong for Valentine's Day."  
  
Harry's eyes widened in genuine horror. "You're kidding."  
  
"Nope." Draco shook his head, his face perfectly serious. "She asked me what your favourite colour is, and I told her you'd like a neon green one with silver linings," Draco grinned slyly, "you know — Slytherin colours."  
  
  


* * * * * * *

  
  
Professor Lupin sat in his office, and idly picked the worn scroll of parchment out of his drawer. He couldn't hold back a small wry smile as he turned the scroll over in his hands, inspecting it. It was the Marauder's Map, and it brought back bittersweet memories, like strains of a cherished childhood song.   
  
He would never forget the times Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs roamed the Forbidden Forest, wild spirits running free where the horizons were their only limits. It was so long ago, but as he fingered the yellowed parchment in his hands, the nights felt like only yesterday. It was hard to believe that so many things had happened since then — dark, evil deeds that had taken away his three closest friends, two in death and one in cold-blooded betrayal.   
  
Lupin uncreased the scroll, spreading it out on his table. A roll of blank parchment stared innocently back at him, a clever camouflage that had managed to fool countless teachers in their time, probably even more since then. Lupin had actually completely forgotten about the Marauder's Map, even after he had arrived as a teacher in Hogwarts last year. But he instantly recognised it when he saw the Weasley twins skulking around the one-eyed witch statue with it clasped in their hands, and had taken it back into his possession for posterity.  
  
He picked up his wand, tapped on the parchment and muttered, "I solemnly swear that I am up to no good." Those words rolled off his tongue like the most natural phrase in the world, and the irony of them brought a smile to his face. He could almost hear Prongs and Padfoot laughing if they could see him here: _Moony! You, a teacher? Joining the ranks of the enemy! Woe to the next generation of mischief-makers, you'll know every trick in the book..._  
  
Lupin forced himself to stop thinking about his friends. It still hurt too much to dwell on them, especially Sirius. It made him painfully remember what Sirius did — the most gruesome, horrendous thing that any human could have ever done.  
  
The familiar spidery lines emerged on the faded parchment, meeting and crisscrossing as they fanned out to the extremity of the scroll as if an invisible hand was sketching out the plan of Hogwarts. Lupin sighed and sat back in his chair, absently looking over the contents of the scroll. He often perused the Map in his free time — whatever scruples of conscience that nagged at him vanished as a lot of interesting details about the goings-on in the school were revealed.   
  
Apparently the Owlery had now taken over the Astronomy Tower as the students' favourite place for sordid little make-out sessions... and over there was Professors Vector and Sinistra, having what they thought was a private moment — and — _what_ in the world was Snapedoing in the —? Lupin blinked, and ventured a closer look. _Oh_ — he was — never mind. Lupin grimaced. _That_ definitely had been too much information.  
  
Lupin quickly glanced away from the Potions master, and his eyes came to rest on the vicinity of Hagrid's hut. There he could see the dots labelled 'Harry Potter' and 'Draco Malfoy' lingering around the pumpkin patch, presumably serving their latest detention. Lupin had heard all about the donkey escapade from a very dismayed Professor McGonagall ('Really! Harry is even more trouble than James had been!'), and he chuckled softly to himself. James certainly would have been amused to see his son carrying on his legacy of mischief.  
  
A frown furrowed Lupin's tired features. _Would James really have been proud of Harry?_ he wondered. _What would he have said if he found out that Harry had been Sorted into Slytherin?_ It had come as quite a shock to Lupin himself, when he had arrived at the school in the preceding year — Harry Potter, in Slytherin? That was almost as improbable as Snape becoming Head of Gryffindor (and thank goodness that didn't happen, or Lupin would really have to check that potion he'd been brewing for himself).   
  
Lupin had gone to ask Dumbledore about it — he had been, to say the least, appalled. In response, Dumbledore had been rather cryptic about the whole matter — all he said was that the Sorting Hat had never been wrong, and that Harry would have to carve out a life for himself in the House he was Sorted into. _And that he certainly seems to be managing,_ Dumbledore had added, with a twinkle in his eye. _Harry has successfully been getting into a fine lot of trouble, with the assistance of Mr Draco Malfoy. _  
  
But all the same, Lupin had his doubts. James' son — in Slytherin? That was preposterous. But he'd wisely left it as it was. So far, Harry excelled in Defence Against the Dark Arts classes, consistently topping Slytherin and sometimes even the entire level — it was either him, or Hermione Granger from Gryffindor.   
  
Gryffindor. Lupin smiled, and his eyes strayed over to Gryffindor Tower, which still looked familiar and unchanged from the days he had lived in it. In his time, Gryffindor was _the_ high-flying House, best in everything from Quidditch to Transfiguration, courtesy of the sheer talent and intelligence of James Potter and Sirius Black. Probably the only subject in which Slytherin held its own was Potions, and that was because of Severus Snape. But now, sadly, Slytherin seemed to have taken over the honour roll.  
  
Lupin glanced at the time — it was going on half-past nine, and most of the Gryffindors were (reluctantly) spending their night with McGonagall for an extra Transfiguration lesson (since Peeves had disrupted class last week when he caused a water pipe to explode, resulting in a torrential shower flooding the Transfiguration classroom while McGonagall was teaching), so the common room and the Tower was almost empty.   
  
Almost.  
  
Lupin started involuntarily, and abruptly leaned forward, almost unable to believe his eyes.  
  
There was unmistakably someone in the boys' dormitory in Gryffindor Tower.  
  
Lupin stared at the tiny black dot, his mouth slack, his heartbeat quickening, pounding in his ears. His eyes were transfixed on the small label above the dot, which was darting to and fro within the dormitory. Lupin rubbed his eyes. He must be imagining things, or Snape must have slipped a hallucinogen into his Wolfsbane Potion.   
  
It couldn't be.   
  
Lupin looked again. The dot was still there, clear as before, distinct against the pale parchment. And the Marauder's Map never lied.  
  
_Peter Pettigrew.  
_  
Peter Pettigrew was alive, and he was in Gryffindor Tower at that very moment.  
  
Lupin remained frozen for a moment longer before he sprang into action. Snatching the Map in one hand, he rushed out of his office and sprinted as fast as he could in the direction of Gryffindor Tower.  
  
  


* * * * * * *

  
  
Lupin crawled through the portrait hole after giving the password ('Starry night' — the teachers knew all the passwords), and dashed straight up the stairs leading to the boys' dormitory. The directions were oddly familiar — he and his friends had lived in exactly the same dormitory when they were in Hogwarts, and now one of his friends — or _former _friend — was right there at that precise moment.  
  
He reached the top of the stairs and flung the door open. The dormitory was dark, except for stray beams of moonlight filtering in through the windows. Lupin's sharp eyes were accustomed to seeing in almost pitch darkness, and they quickly adjusted to the dim interior as they darted around expectantly.   
  
There was no one there.   
  
Lupin frowned as he strode to the middle of the room, his head swivelling from side to side as he looked into the darkened corners, expecting to see a figure of a man crouching here or there. But the room was completely empty, except for himself.   
  
Lupin blinked, perplexed. Maybe the strong anti-depressants he used to take (and almost got an overdose of once, but that was almost fifteen years ago) had permanently damaged his mind in some way or the other.  
  
He raised his wand, the Marauder's Map held in his hand. "_Lumos,_" he snapped, in a rather agitated tone. Light blossomed forth from the tip of his wand, illuminating the parchment.   
  
Lupin's eyes cut to the section representing Gryffindor Tower, and immediately saw himself standing in the middle of the room. His eyes widened as he saw the tiny black dot marked 'Peter Pettigrew' streaking right past him on the map, out of the open dormitory door and down the stairs.  
  
"Damn!" Lupin yelled, as realisation dawned upon him. He whirled around, desperately searching the darkened floor. He swore heatedly under his breath, and started toward the door, which was ajar.  
  
He suddenly heard a faint murmur of voices and pattering feet coming from the common room below — a glance at the Map told him that the Gryffindors were back from class. The dot marked 'Pettigrew' merged with the group of students coming up the stairs, and Lupin lost sight of it for a moment. Lupin hurried down the stairs, cursing softly — he should have realised earlier...  
  
Down in the common room, Ron was half-listening to Hermione's theory about how a Switching Spell could be combined with a Summoning Spell in a makeshift form of Apparition when he saw Professor Lupin hurtling down the stairs from the boys' dormitory, his pale face flushed pink. The other Gryffindors looked up, startled as well.  
  
Hermione reacted first. "Professor Lupin!" she exclaimed, looking worried. "What's going on?"  
  
Lupin glanced wildly around, and was met with a dozen curious gazes looking back at him. He scanned the floor, but it was too cluttered with books, bags as well as tables and chairs. He looked at the Map in his hands — the dot marked 'Pettigrew' was already out of Gryffindor Tower and was swiftly racing down the corridors, clearly making its way out of the Hogwarts grounds. There would be no way he could stop Pettigrew, or alert Dumbledore in time.  
  
Ron looked anxiously at their Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher — the usually calm and collected Professor Lupin was behaving in a rather strange manner, as if something very serious had happened. He exchanged worried looks with Hermione.  
  
Finally, Lupin sighed and took a deep breath to calm himself. He looked at the Gryffindors, who were watching him silently. "Who of you boys live in the first dormitory on the left, at the top of the stairs?" he asked, casting a sharp glance around.  
  
_That's our dorm,_ Ron thought. He raised his hand. "I do," he answered, and saw a few of his classmates — Seamus Finnigan, Dean Thomas, as well as Neville Longbottom — nodding too. "So do the other sixth-year Gryffindors, Professor."  
  
Lupin nodded thoughtfully. "Would you four boys please step aside, I'd like a word with you." He waved his hand, dismissing the others. "The rest of you may go back to your dorms, there's nothing to be worried about." The Gryffindors still looked rather dubious as they filed off, however — it was not common to see Professor Lupin looking so troubled, unless something was _really_ wrong.  
  
Hermione gave Ron a small wave as he stepped aside to talk to Professor Lupin. "I'll see you in the morning, then," she whispered, giving him a tell-me-all-about-it-tomorrow look. "Goodnight."  
  
"Night," Ron answered, as he turned his attention to Professor Lupin.  
  
Lupin looked very sober as he glanced at the four boys waiting in front of him. "Firstly," he said, noticing the slight alarm on all their faces, "there is absolutely nothing to be worried about — your dorm is perfectly safe." Neville Longbottom looked distinctly comforted by his words. "I just want to know one thing — does any of you own a rat?"  
  
Everyone looked at Ron, who stammered slightly, "I — I do, Professor, I mean, I did."  
  
"You _did_? What do you mean?" Lupin asked pointedly.  
  
"I had a rat, Scabbers," Ron explained. "But it ran away more than a year ago — I don't know where it went."  
  
"I see," Lupin said, a pensive look on his face. "Other than Ron, does anyone else own — or used to own — a rat?"  
  
The rest of them shook their heads.  
  
"How long have you had that rat?" Lupin turned to Ron, who was starting to look rather uncomfortable.  
  
"Ages," Ron replied. "It was my brother Percy's, at first, then later he gave it to me when I came to Hogwarts." He glanced warily at Professor Lupin. "It's not against the rules or anything, is it? Did I do something wrong?"  
  
"No, no," Lupin answered distractedly. He looked intently at Ron. "When did it run away — a year ago, did you say?"   
  
Ron nodded. "Sometime last year, I think."  
  
"Did it return to your dorm since then? Did it ever come back, even briefly?"  
  
Ron shook his head. "Not that I know of." He looked worried. "Is there anything wrong, Professor?"  
  
Lupin sighed. There were dark rings framing his usually clear blue-grey eyes, now clouded with thoughtfulness. "No, Ron, there's nothing wrong." Lupin hoped that he sounded convincing, and noticed the boys still looking at him in anticipation of an explanation for his rather unexpected line of questioning. _How am I supposed to explain everything to them?_   
  
So instead, Lupin crossed his fingers behind his back and said, "There's been a suspected virus running amok within the rat population — the Headmaster wants to make sure the students are not exposed to any risks, and I was told that some of you boys own rats."  
  
Ron gave Professor Lupin a doubtful sidelong glance — he suspected that his teacher wasn't telling them the whole truth, if at all. "No, we don't have any rats, sir — not anymore, at least."  
  
There was no look of relief on Lupin's face as he turned away. "Very well, then, please get on with your evening. Goodnight, boys."  
  
Lupin slid out of the portrait hole, emerging on the other side. He gave the Fat Lady a tired smile as he slowly paced down the darkened corridor, his mind heavy with conflicting thoughts. He still wasn't sure he believed what he had seen in the Marauder's Map, but he knew he hadn't been seeing things.   
  
Peter Pettigrew was still alive. And that changed almost everything.  
  
Lupin walked down the corridor, and instead of turning left back towards his own office, he headed in the opposite direction, to Dumbledore's office. He needed to tell the Headmaster what had transpired tonight, and ask him what to make of it, whether it could _possibly_ mean what Lupin thought it did.  
  
_What was going on?_ Lupin asked himself, rubbing his temples wearily. "Sherbet lemons," he said as he reached the stone gargoyle, and it opened to permit him entry. _What in the world is going on?_  
  
And for once, Lupin couldn't answer his own question.   
  
  
  
~~~  
  



	3. Redemption

  
Slytherin Pride  
  
Chapter 3: Redemption  
  
  
Lucius Malfoy drew to a halt outside the door. He could hear voices from within, and he paused for a moment to listen.  
  
"I tell you, master, it's possible that he could be the one!" came a nasal voice, unmistakably belonging to Wormtail. "I've been watching him for years, and..."  
  
Lucius turned the doorknob and resolutely pushed the door open. Inside the enclosed room stood Voldemort and Wormtail, standing a stone's throw away from the fireplace. What immediately struck Lucius was how unbearably cold the room was — autumn was waning, no doubt, but it felt as if he'd just stepped onto the Arctic in the dead of winter. The fireplace was blazing with an unnatural cerulean blue flame — an icy fire that burned cold instead of hot.   
  
Lucius froze as he stared at his master. He blinked a few times, unable to hide his surprise as the Dark Lord turned and rested his chilling, bloodshot gaze on him. Lucius' cringed inwardly, although his eyes were fixated on his master in almost awed wonderment.  
  
Voldemort had reclaimed his human body.  
  
Since he'd spoken to his master five years ago about Harry Potter being put in Slytherin, Lucius had only seen Voldemort once, in the previous year. Voldemort had some instructions for him, mostly about Draco. Then, Voldemort had still been a formless being, and Lucius had fought his instinctive revulsion at the grotesque shape of his master as they'd conversed for all of five minutes.  
  
But now, his master had risen again.  
  
"Master," Lucius whispered, almost reverentially. He took a step forward, and knelt in a low, respectful bow.  
  
Voldemort regarded him dispassionately for a moment, before motioning for him to rise with a facile wave of his hand.   
  
"Lucius," he said softly, his cold voice slicing through colder air. "It's been a long time." He gave a mirthless smile, noticing the stupefaction still apparent on Lucius' face. "Fail to recognise me, Lucius, in my new body?"  
  
"No, master," Lucius replied quickly, masking his expression into one of humble submissiveness, which was not his first nature. "I was merely admiring your new — more _powerful_ form, my Lord."  
  
"Yes, a form that you contributed nothing to create," Voldemort said lazily, although his tone was sharp enough to cut glass. Lucius flinched involuntarily, his master's words stabbing deep. Voldemort cast him a disinterested glance before turning away again. "Still, you were the first to alert me to the very favourable turn of events regarding Harry Potter, and I will not overlook that."  
  
Lucius almost sank to his knees in relief. "Thank you, master," he said gratefully. He wanted to approach his master, but suddenly a glint of fangs stopped him abruptly in his tracks — with a jolt of horror, Lucius saw that a large, thick snake was coiled at Voldemort's feet. The snake hissed menacingly, rearing its scaly head and baring its poisonous fangs. Lucius hastily stumbled backwards a few steps, out of the zone of danger.  
  
Wormtail saw Lucius' fumbling, and smiled pitilessly. He'd never really taken to Lucius Malfoy, especially since Lucius had been one of Voldemort's right-hand men during the days of the Dark Lord's reign. Wormtail's eyes narrowed as he watched Lucius retreat a safe distance from the snake.   
  
He'd always envied Lucius, almost to the point of loathing him. Lucius had it all — good looks, power, wealth, the master's vote of confidence — he had always been given important duties by the Dark Lord, while he, Wormtail, had been given the despicable, thankless job of playing traitor to his former friends.   
  
And now, Lucius Malfoy had intruded at a very inopportune time, and interrupted him just as he was about to tell his master something very important. Wormtail glared hatefully at Lucius, who missed the venomous look.  
  
Voldemort ignored both of them, and was staring thoughtfully into space. Lucius shot him an anxious glance, waiting to be beckoned forward, but took no initiative to approach his master owing to the snake that was still hissing and spitting threateningly.   
  
The moments passed in tense silence, until Lucius finally couldn't stand it anymore.   
  
"My Lord?" he spoke up tentatively, watching Voldemort's reaction carefully. When Voldemort didn't silence him, Lucius continued, albeit fearfully. "I wish to speak with you about what we talked of previously — if you can avail the time, that is," he added hastily.  
  
Voldemort afforded him a calm, level gaze. "Speak, then." His voice was even, his tone almost bored.  
  
Lucius' eyes cut in the direction of Wormtail. "In private, perhaps?" He gave Wormtail a meaningful look.  
  
Wormtail glared insolently back, and didn't move, suppressed rage darting in his glazed black eyes. _How dare Lucius order me around like that?_ he thought furiously. _How dare he treat me as an inferior?  
_  
But it was unspoken knowledge that according to status quo, Lucius still held a higher rank than he. Very ungraciously, Wormtail excused himself and left the room, although unknown to Lucius, he lingered outside to eavesdrop on the conversation.  
  
Lucius watched Wormtail slink from the room, and turned to the Dark Lord as the door clicked shut. Voldemort had moved slightly, and was now facing away from Lucius, looking contemplative once again.  
  
Lucius glanced apprehensively at the serpent still coiled in a deceivingly docile manner at Voldemort's feet. Finally, he decided that where he stood put a comfortable berth between himself and the snake, and didn't move forward — then Voldemort suddenly spoke, and Lucius almost jumped.  
  
"You wanted a word, Lucius?" His voice was dark and ominous, chilling the atmosphere further.  
  
"Yes, my Lord." Lucius closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to steady the imperceptible quaver in his voice. "I wanted to talk to you — about Draco. My son," he added, almost as an afterthought.  
  
"I know who Draco is, Lucius." Voldemort's voice was calmly disapproving, as if Lucius was insulting his intellect.   
  
Lucius wilted slightly. "Yes, yes, my Lord." He hesitated, then continued in a rush. "You said, the last time, that Draco could possibly be the heir of —"  
  
"I remember what I said, Lucius," Voldemort cut him off sharply, a tone of impatience in his voice. He abruptly turned around, and Lucius had to summon every ounce of willpower not to show any emotion on his face as he laid his eyes on the Dark Lord's corpse-like face.   
  
Voldemort's eyes narrowed to fiery red slits, and he stared hard at Lucius for a moment, but said nothing. Lucius seemed to be increasingly uncomfortable, and kept shifting his weight from foot to foot. He looked as if he very badly wanted to ask something, but was drowning to urge to do so.  
  
If Voldemort sensed the burning question waiting on Lucius' lips, he ignored it. He started pacing slowly, and the snake at his feet smoothly unravelled itself, slithering out on the cold tiled floor in all its glorious, fifteen-foot length. Lucius had to clamp his jaws together to silence his instinctive yell of terror, and all that emerged was a rather muffled choke.  
  
Voldemort looked pointedly at Lucius, who was edging as far away from the uncoiling snake as he possibly could.   
  
"You will assist me grandly in the conquest of Harry Potter," Voldemort said slowly, drawing out each syllable in a cold, merciless voice. "And if you — and your son — prove yourselves brave even in the face of death, why, you will be rewarded bountifully."  
  
Lucius Malfoy didn't exactly look the embodiment of bravery at that moment, flattened against the far wall with his hands gripping the back of a chair so tightly that his knuckles turned white, but he still managed a feeble nod.   
  
"Yes master," he said faintly, "We are your servants, and we will do your bidding."  
  
"Will I be able to count you as one of my loyal followers, then?" Voldemort's voice cracked through the frosty air like a whip.  
  
"Of course, master," Lucius answered the rhetorical question automatically, nodding fervently. He tiptoed toward the closed door as the snake began to take a rather unhealthy interest in him. "We pledge our lives to you — we will serve you faithfully."  
  
"As to that, only time will tell," Voldemort answered coolly, casting Lucius a glance that bordered on disdain. "And I might say it is rather presumptuous of you to speak for your son, Draco."  
  
"Draco will not disappoint you, my Lord," Lucius replied confidently, with a proud smile, and his voice was slightly stronger. "He will be your worthy heir."  
  
"We will see," Voldemort said languidly, in a non-committal tone. "As for the present, I trust you to arrange matters as best you see fit — I want you to bring Harry Potter to me, alive at all costs."  
  
"It will be done, master," Lucius answered quickly, nodding vigorously. "I will come up with a plan, and —"  
  
"And you will run it by me before you proceed," Voldemort interrupted firmly. He shot Lucius a sharp look. "Some of your — _plans_ have been known to fall flat on their faces the moment they are put into action."  
  
Lucius' pale face flushed brilliant pink. "Yes, yes," he said quickly, looking quite mortified. "I will certainly seek your approval before I do anything..."  
  
Outside, Wormtail fumed with rage as he listened to Lucius' ingratiating voice start to discuss the aspects of his 'plan'. How could he? How could his master entrust this privileged task to _Malfoy?  
  
_It wasn't fair, Wormtail thought resentfully. It was _he_ who had risked life and limb to find his master last year, who had loyally served and tended to him while the Resurrection Spell was pending. He had done everything in his power, given everything he had to assist his master in his return — well, _almost_ everything. His own flesh and bone had proven too much of a sacrifice to give, and another faithful Death Eater had offered the 'flesh of the servant, willingly given.'   
  
But he had still sacrificed more than Lucius Malfoy! Wormtail felt the anger simmering within him, and he clenched his fists, feeling the absence of his right forefinger. He'd conceded the prime position as Voldemort's most favoured Death Eater, but he had expected to be at least second in command. Either way, he deserved to be rewarded far more than Lucius Malfoy did! That slimy little bastard. He and his blasted pretty-boy son.   
  
_Draco Malfoy?_ Wormtail thought contemptuously. _How could Lucius Malfoy's son be the one? _He grudgingly admitted that on the surface, Draco seemed a likely candidate — tall, good-looking, self-assured... so much like his father, Wormtail thought bitterly. But sometimes, _sometimes_, the true heir could rise from the most unlikely places.  
  
Wormtail's thin, pallid lips were set in a grim line as he turned and stalked away, Lucius' voice still ringing in his ears. He'd show his master, he resolved determinedly. He'd show his master that he had the insight to discern who the true heir was — and it was not Draco Malfoy, for sure.  
  
Wormtail smiled humourlessly. Deep down inside, his gut feeling told him that his selection was the right one. He knew what he'd seen, what the signs meant — and there was no way in hell he was going to let Lucius Malfoy steal all the glory again.   
  
  


* * * * * * *

  
  
"Peter Pettigrew." Dumbledore sounded very thoughtful, and he drummed his fingers lightly against the edge of his desk, something which evidenced that he was thinking very hard.  
  
"Yes, Headmaster." Remus Lupin nodded, full of conviction. His heart was still beating faster than usual, and it echoed in his ears, making it hard for him to think clearly. He was still slightly out of breath, and he wasn't sure if it was because of running to the Headmaster's office or that he'd blurted out everything he was bursting to tell without stopping to breathe.  
  
"This presents a world of interesting possibilities," Dumbledore said, voicing Lupin's exact sentiments, and he nodded in fervent agreement. Dumbledore thought for a moment longer, then continued, "Does Ronald Weasley have any other information about this supposed rat of his?"  
  
"No," Lupin shook his head. "All he told me was that it was given by his brother Percy, and that it had run away about a year ago."  
  
"And yet he returned again tonight," Dumbledore said, twirling the edge of his luxuriant beard with his fingers.   
  
Lupin noted that Dumbledore hadn't once asked him if he was _sure_ that it had been Peter Pettigrew, and he was thankful for that — he really didn't need to doubt himself more, and the Headmaster's vote of confidence was comforting.   
  
Dumbledore eyed the Marauder's Map with interest. "This is a fascinating piece of parchment you have here," he commented, observing the tiny black dots moving randomly across the scroll, which had mapped out the grounds of Hogwarts in its entirety. "Even I never knew there were so many secret passages — you and your friends explored them all in your time at Hogwarts, I presume?"  
  
Remus managed a small smile. "Every single one." The feeble grin quickly faded as an expression of seriousness hooded his eyes. "And the Map can't be wrong, Professor — we've used every Anti-Concealment Charm there is, even the ones that make magical eyes able to see through Cloaks and disguises. Basically, the Map shows no lies, not even if you're masked by Polyjuice Potion — or in Animagus form."  
  
"Yes, another unwitting complication thrown into the fray," Dumbledore said, with a sigh. Lupin blushed slightly — he'd told the Headmaster all about what James, Sirius and Peter had done, although he, Remus, accepted full responsibility for the illegal Animagus transformations since it had been for his sake. Dumbledore, however, had been duly impressed by their remarkable achievement.  
  
"Professor —" Lupin started, somewhat hesitantly. Dumbledore turned his crinkled blue eyes on him, silently encouraging him to speak. Lupin took a deep breath, then continued, "If Peter is alive, it means that Sirius Black didn't kill him. And that means that he's in Azkaban for a crime he didn't commit — at least the charge he was indicted for, if not for what he did to Lily and James."  
  
"Did James ever tell you who they eventually made Secret-Keeper?" Dumbledore asked unexpectedly.  
  
Remus blinked, thrown by the apparent non sequitur. "Why yes — wasn't it Sirius?" He frowned, trying to remember what James had told him, about a week before his death: _Dumbledore thinks the Fidelius Charm is the best way — Sirius is going to be our Secret-Keeper._ "At least, that's what James told me."  
  
"And me," Dumbledore said softly. Remus glanced at his pensive expression, and could almost see the cogs and wheels working in overdrive inside his white-haired head. "But that was two days before the Charm was performed — I lost contact with him thereafter." A sorrowful look tinged the serious expression on Dumbledore's face.  
  
"But it _had_ to be Sirius, hadn't it?" Lupin asked, shocked by the idea of another possibility. "I mean — who else would he choose, other than Sirius?" His eyes suddenly widened, and he let out a soft exclamation. "Not — not _Peter?_" Lupin looked horrified.  
  
Dumbledore sighed. "Did you know that James and Lily were killed less than twenty-four hours after the Fidelius Charm was performed?" He looked sombrely at Lupin. "It was clear that their Secret-Keeper had violated their trust in him — everyone assumed it was Sirius Black, especially after he presumably killed Peter Pettigrew."  
  
"But now that Peter's alive..." Remus began, thinking quickly, utterly shocked as the pieces of the puzzle slowly scattered into place. "But— but James couldn't _possibly_ have made Peter his Secret-Keeper! Sirius was his best friend, I mean, they were closer than brothers! Sirius knew James better than any one of us!"  
  
Dumbledore looked thoughtful. "Perhaps that was the reason why no one — myself included — even _thought_ to suspect otherwise. Sirius was just the natural assumption, I have to agree, and the last I spoke with James, he told me such as well."  
  
"Why would he change his mind, then?" Lupin frowned. "Maybe he suspected that Sirius had been working for Voldemort all along, and changed to Peter at the last moment."   
  
"And see the consequences that resulted..." Dumbledore pointed out gently.   
  
"Good point, Professor." Lupin grimaced. His thinking was still heavily tinged by the prejudice that Sirius was the guilty killer — he tried to shake it out of his head. "So Peter isn't dead — Sirius didn't kill him — but why has he not shown himself, all this while? Why has he been hiding away?"  
  
"Perhaps because there's something he's hiding _from._" Dumbledore said gravely. "Perhaps somehow, James had appointed _him_ as Secret-Keeper instead of Sirius, and he had betrayed the Potters' whereabouts to Voldemort. After Voldemort fell, Pettigrew had nowhere else to turn — the only way was for him to go into hiding."  
  
Lupin pondered for a moment. It was true — Pettigrew's absence was the most glaring badge of his guilt. There would be no reason for an innocent man to spend the last decade and a half in the guise of a rat, isolated from his friends who had all assumed him dead.   
  
"I don't believe this," Lupin finally said, very softly, almost to himself. He raised his tired eyes to meet Dumbledore's. "How could this be true? What about the explosion — the deadly curse that killed all those Muggles? Why did Sirius do that?"  
  
Dumbledore shook his head. "Frankly, we had no hard evidence that Sirius was responsible for the incident — he staunchly refused to give a confession. The only proof was his presence at the scene of the explosion, and what remained of Pettigrew — his finger." Dumbledore looked slightly pained. "I also gave testimony of James' words to me, telling me that Sirius was his Secret-Keeper." He gave a wry, almost bitter smile. "But that evidence was never even formally considered, since Bartemius Crouch sent Sirius straight to Azkaban without a trial."  
  
"How could this be?" Lupin repeated, still in disbelief. The thought that Sirius, once such a close friend of his, could possibly have spent the last fifteen years in Azkaban for a crime he never committed was more horrifying than Remus could imagine.   
  
Remus' voice was a broken whisper when he spoke again. "Why didn't he tell us the truth?"  
  
"Would anyone have believed him?" Dumbledore asked reasonably. "Everyone presumed he was the Potters' Secret-Keeper. He was the only wizard at the scene of the explosion, standing in front of Pettigrew's bloodstained robes. He never once denied that he was responsible for James and Lily's death — frankly, even I would have been sceptical."  
  
"But— but he could have just said _something_..." Lupin wouldn't let it go. He was feeling mildly hysterical at the very thought that Sirius could be innocent, that he had wrongly accused his friend all along. "He should have at least told us that he wasn't James and Lily's Secret-Keeper."  
  
"We still don't know that, and again, we probably wouldn't have believed him — not even you, Remus," Dumbledore added, and Lupin bit back a protest as he grudgingly admitted that Dumbledore was right.   
  
Dumbledore gave Lupin a sympathetic look, noticing how distraught he was. "The odds were stacked against Sirius back then. Even now that Pettigrew has appeared out of the woodwork, it's still not a definite indication that Sirius isn't guilty, although it casts a considerable amount of suspicion on Pettigrew. We still don't know what _really_ happened — all we have are theories and opinions."  
  
Lupin shook his head miserably. "And now we'll never know," he said bitterly. "We'll never know if Sirius really betrayed James and Lily, and we'll never know if an innocent man has spent the last fifteen years in the most horrible place on earth —"  
  
"Yes, we will," Dumbledore said unexpectedly. "We'll ask Sirius ourselves."  
  
Lupin's head snapped up — he stared at Dumbledore disbelievingly.   
  
"_What?_" he exclaimed, then quickly corrected himself, "Pardon me?"  
  
Dumbledore nodded firmly. "There is only one truth, and one way to get it. I suspect there are only two people alive now who can tell us what really happened that night — one goes by the name of Peter Pettigrew. The other is Sirius Black."  
  
"And he probably won't be in the condition to tell us," Lupin said morosely. "He's been in Azkaban for more than a decade, Professor. People normally go insane within the first year. By now he's probably gone mad a dozen times over — or maybe he's even dead." Remus shuddered involuntarily at the thought, and he buried his face in his hands. He was feeling so confused at the moment, and he wasn't sure what to believe.  
  
Dumbledore shook his head. "He's not dead. I spoke with Cornelius Fudge about a month ago — he'd been in Azkaban for some business, and he remarked to me how unusually calm and sane Sirius Black appeared to be. Apparently, Sirius even asked him for a cigarette. When Fudge said he didn't have any, Sirius replied, 'Oh, just as well then — the addiction's probably killing me.' "  
  
Lupin cracked a smile. That sounded like signature Sirius, all right.   
  
Dumbledore allowed a small smile as well, but it was quickly replaced with an expression of sober determination. "I'll speak with Bartemius Crouch about the matter, in private. Sirius' temporary release — pending more evidence for or against his innocence — will be arranged."  
  
Remus looked incredulous. "How are you going to do that? You know how Crouch is — he'd sooner send his own son to the Dementors than give a suspected Death Eater a fair trial. He's fanatical — he thinks that every person he sends to Azkaban on the charge of being a Death Eater somehow asserts his own moral integrity."  
  
"Well, perhaps he's going rather soft in his old age, then," Dumbledore replied, a hard expression in his eyes. "I've heard from a reliable source that he arranged for a short release of his son, off-the-record — his wife was dying, and her last wish was that her son be allowed to visit her on her deathbed. Word has it, however, that Bartemius Crouch Jr was never returned to Azkaban — he vanished while on his temporary release."  
  
"Vanished?" Remus repeated. "How?"  
  
Dumbledore shrugged. "I know this much, and even then this information is no longer available." His usually benign demeanour hardened, and a look of abhorrence crossed his face. "Crouch would go to any lengths to keep such knowledge from the public ear — and that includes using very strong and damaging Memory Charms without any hesitation. The person who told me about Crouch's son's escape no longer remembers such a thing — so it would be pointless for me to bring it up to the Ministry, because there are no witnesses to testify. Besides, with Crouch in such a prominent position, the petition would be quashed before you can say 'authoritarian'."  
  
Lupin blinked, still not quite cottoning on. His mind was a shifting haze, and he was thinking in slow motion. "And your point would be..." he started slowly.  
  
"As I said, Crouch would go to any lengths to keep it quiet," Dumbledore explained, with a small smile of triumph. "Authorising the release of a prisoner — top secret, of course — would not pose much of a problem at all. Not for the risk of news about his son's mysterious disappearance leaking out, and I'll be sure to remind him of that."  
  
"Professor!" Lupin looked mildly shocked. "Isn't this — blackmail?"  
  
Professor Dumbledore's eyes twinkled slightly. "I prefer to call it the optional disclosure of selected information," he said, with an almost sly grin. "I'm not usually an advocate of the belief that the ends justify the means, but for the sake of justice, I'm willing to do all in my power to make sure that it is upheld."   
  
"For Sirius' sake, then?"   
  
"Yes, for Sirius' sake," Dumbledore agreed. "Besides, I'll ensure that he is not allowed out of my sight, and if it is proven that he is indeed guilty for the heinous crimes he has been incarcerated for, then I'll not hesitate to return him to his rightful place."  
  
"I thought you didn't approve of Azkaban?" Lupin pointed out, raising an eyebrow.  
  
"I didn't, and still don't." Dumbledore replied. "I have never thought it prudent of the Ministry to ally themselves with Dark creatures like the Dementors. But..." He paused, and his eyes briefly misted over with a nostalgic remembrance. "You would have to look hard for another couple as fine as James and Lily, and it would be an insult to them if some form of justice was not served on their behalf." Dumbledore drew a deep breath. "But I still maintain that Dementors shouldn't be used at Azkaban, and that death is a far more humane punishment than the Dementor's Kiss."  
  
"Whoever is responsible for James and Lily's death well deserves it," Lupin said darkly, a forgotten but not extinguished anger rising inside him again. "I've been— hating Sirius all these years, for what he did — or at least what I _thought_ he did. Now that Peter's still alive..." Remus trailed off, feeling the confusion start over again in his head. He rubbed his temples — he felt a steady migraine building at the back of his brain.   
  
Dumbledore understood what Lupin couldn't phrase into words. "I know, Remus," he said softly, the calmness in his voice measurelessly consoling. "There's a lot of things I don't understand as well — Pettigrew's sudden appearance casts doubt on many things we've believed as facts all this while." Dumbledore reached over and patted Lupin lightly on his shoulder, then said staunchly, "But we'll get to the bottom of this — we'll uncover the truth."  
  
"What did he want in the Gryffindor boys' dormitory?" Remus wondered out loud. "What is he up to?"  
  
"Another thing we'll find out, soon enough," Dumbledore said grimly. "I have a feeling that a lot of other things will come to light once we get a chance to speak with Sirius, and the sooner I talk to Crouch, the better."  
  
  


* * * * * * *

  
  
"Rat disease?" Hermione didn't sound very convinced.  
  
Ron nodded. "At least, that's what Professor Lupin said." He shrugged. "But I somehow got the feeling that he wasn't telling the whole truth."  
  
"Well, it _might_ be true," Hermione said diplomatically. "I mean, being wizards and witches doesn't mean we're immune to the illnesses that affect Muggles. And rats can be quite horrid and dirty, living in gutters and all."  
  
"Not Scabbers," Ron replied, a mild note of irritation in his voice. "Scabbers was a house rat. He's been in our family for ages, since Percy was a kid. Scabbers spent most of his time sleeping, mind, which is why it still remains a wonder how he got up enough energy to run away."  
  
"Just as well he did," Hermione said airily. "Crookshanks didn't like him one bit."   
  
"Oh, and Scabbers loved your fat ginger cat a lot," Ron shot back dryly. "In fact, he even bequeathed his little sleeping cushion to Crookshanks, for it to shred to pieces in place of him."  
  
"Very funny, Ron." Hermione turned her attention to her Transfiguration homework, and the topic of Scabbers the rat was forgotten.   
  
But Ron didn't stop thinking about Lupin's strange intrusion into their dorm the night before. He sat opposite Hermione, staring at the blank parchment in front of him, which was supposed to be filled with his Astronomy essay before the end of the night.   
  
He didn't quite believe the story about rat disease, either. Perhaps Professor Lupin was looking for something in their dormitory. Otherwise, why on earth did he pick their dorm, of all the dorms? Ron knew that other students owned rats too; few of them, but there were at least a handful. The more Ron thought about it, the more the rat theory proved implausible. No, definitely Lupin was there for something else.  
  
A thought arrested Ron, and his stomach fluttered slightly.  
  
Could Lupin possibly have found out about his... powers?  
  
Ron got to his feet abruptly; Hermione looked up at him, startled. "Where are you going?"  
  
"Up to my dorm for a while," Ron replied. "I'm not feeling too good, I think I'll go lie down for a bit."  
  
Hermione looked concerned. "What's wrong with you?"  
  
Ron made an exaggerated show of rubbing his temples. "Headache — feeling dizzy," he grunted. He left his homework where it lay; he would be coming back down later. "I'll go rest in the dorm for a while."  
  
Ron ascended the stairs to the dormitory two steps at a time, and barged into the dorm, finding it empty. He went straight to his bed and sat down, closing his eyes momentarily. He was actually feeling a wave of mild vertigo.  
  
It was possible. Lupin _could_ have found out about him — after all, he was the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, and for all Ron knew Hogwarts had some sort of detecting charm in operation, that picked up any form of unusual magic performed within its walls.  
  
And Ron couldn't deny, it _was_ rather unusual magic. Even he didn't quite understand it.  
  
Ron raised his right hand, then hesitated for a moment. He thought about the possibility of the detecting charms — if he tried it here again, he might have Lupin hurtling into the dormitory at any moment. But then it wouldn't make much of a difference anyway, since Lupin probably already knew about it — he'd practiced it at least twice in the dorm before.  
  
Ron closed his eyes again, and concentrated for a moment. Then he opened them, lifted his hand, and tried again. His palm was facing in the direction of Neville's bed, which was cluttered with a mess of homework, books and other things. Ron's gaze fell on the Remembrall, also lying on the bed.  
  
Ron focused his mind on the Remembrall — it wasn't much effort now, all he had to do was consciously concentrate on the small, globular object. He wondered if he could still do it — it had been a few weeks since he'd last tried.  
  
He raised his palm slightly — the Remembrall on Neville's bed wobbled a little, as if someone was rustling the sheets it was lying on, but of course no one was. Slightly more confident, Ron lifted his hand a few inches higher, and the Remembrall levitated upwards, clear of the bed, in a rather unsteady fashion but without a doubt, suspended in mid-air.  
  
Ron held it above the bed for a few moments longer — he thought of guiding it toward him, but decided against it, in case he lost concentration halfway through and made it shatter to the ground. With a sigh, Ron lowered his hand, and the Remembrall fell softly back onto the bed.  
  
Ron slumped onto his own bed, lying flat on his back, staring at the blank ceiling above him. He clenched his right hand into a tight fist, so hard that his fingernails dug crescent marks onto his palm.   
  
He didn't understand this at all, why he could — move things like that. Sure, he was supposed to be a wizard, magic was supposed to be at his fingertips — but not _this_ literally. Wands were supposed to be used, not his own bare hands. And he didn't think he was a magical prodigy — there was no other indication of any extraordinary magical powers he possessed, except for this.  
  
He'd discovered this power almost two years ago, one night back at the Burrow during the holidays. He was in his room, fuming after Fred and George had created an almighty explosion that had wrecked most of his things and completely incinerated all the homework he had done. They had chuckled as they walked out of his ravaged room, and although they'd promised to clear up the mess the next day, Ron had still been positively livid, especially maddened by their nonchalance.  
  
He had shaken his fist at their retreating backs, making a rude gesture at them — when suddenly a vase on the window sill had flown across the room and smashed on the far wall, just inches away from the open door. Ron later realised that it had followed the movement of his right hand in a spectacular projectile across the length of the room before shattering against the wall. He'd been so shocked and stunned that he couldn't even stutter out an explanation when Fred and George came rushing back, worried what the commotion was about.  
  
Ever since that incident, Ron had only experimented with his newfound 'power' a few times — once he'd managed to make Scabbers fly across the room, and a few other random objects took flight as Ron periodically checked if he still had the ability move things without a wand.  
  
He never told anyone about it, not even Hermione, or his family. Ron knew that he should actually feel _proud_ of having such an ability — it was a nifty power to possess, after all. If it had been Hermione she'd probably sit put all day and make everything she needed fly to her just to show that she could do it. Or would she?  
  
That was probably the reason why Ron hadn't told anyone yet. He wasn't sure how they would react, whether they'd be impressed (perhaps hail him a genius? Ron wondered almost wistfully), or whether they'd stare at him as if he was some kind of freak.   
  
After all, it _was_ common knowledge that almost all magic needed the use of a wand. Great wizards like Dumbledore and even He Who Must Not Be Named relied on a wand to perform magic. And it was known that such 'unorthodox' forms of magic, as Ron supposed his strange power could be classified under, were associated with the Dark Arts.  
  
For a while before, Ron tried to convince himself that it was just the persistent after-effects of a Summoning Spell — but two years was way too long for that to be believable. And he could almost hear Hermione say, _What rubbish! There's no such thing as a carry-over effect of a spell, Ron!_ Which was true, Ron knew.  
  
He never practiced it much — only every once in a while, just to see if he still could do it. Sometimes he found himself almost hoping that he couldn't, that the power had left him. But he always succeeded — it was almost ironic how he could manage such strange wandless magic, yet always only scrape by with mediocre marks in Charms.   
  
Lying on his bed, Ron finally decided that he had to tell someone. He'd tell Hermione, of course, but he also needed to tell someone who could help him, give him advice about what to do and what all this meant. Who could he tell? Ron thought about McGonagall, since she was his head of House — but he was quite wary of her, especially since he'd flunked his last Transfiguration test.   
  
Suddenly it occurred to Ron.  
  
He could tell Professor Lupin. Who better than the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher to tell him what to make of this? Lupin was always patient and mild-tempered with his students — he was one of the best-liked teachers among the Gryffindors especially, if not the favourite, even though he was a werewolf. Dumbledore had told the school about Lupin's condition when he had arrived last year, and so far most of the students and staff had rallied nicely in support of him, with the exception of Snape and some of the Slytherins. And especially if Lupin had come to search their dorm last night for the source of unusual magic... it'd be good for Ron if he voluntarily came clean about it.   
  
He didn't have any other classes with Lupin this week, though, so Ron resolved to see him next week, after class. He thought of going to look for Lupin, but he'd never liked the idea of seeing teachers outside of class — it almost always meant trouble. Plus, he was valiantly trying to avoid Snape, since Ron knew that the Potions assignment he'd done was very shoddy work indeed (he'd rushed it out the night before it was due), so going to the staff room wasn't working toward that cause.  
  
Feeling distinctly comforted by his resolve, Ron turned and raised his right hand, facing it at his bedside table; his Astronomy textbook lifted off the table, and he carefully guided it toward him. It floundered a little halfway through, dipping very abruptly and almost falling out of the air, but it managed to reach him eventually. Ron snatched it from mid-air with his other hand as it hovered close to him; this was the heaviest object he'd carried before.  
  
Ron sighed, shook his head and headed out of the dormitory, the Astronomy textbook tucked under his arm.   
  
This was very strange indeed, and he was certainly looking forward to an explanation from Professor Lupin.   
  
  
  
~~~  
  



	4. Second Chances

  
Slytherin Pride  
  
Chapter 4: Second Chances  
  
  
"This is getting ridiculous, Draco!" Harry grumbled as he sat opposite Draco in the Slytherin common room. He rubbed his aching arms ruefully. "You're making us practice every night until our limbs are hanging loose, and now you want to charm the brooms, too?"  
  
"Look, I _need_ to win this match, all right?" Draco argued. "This is the first match I'm captaining, and I'll be damned if we don't flatten Gryffindor!"   
  
"Oh, so it's the Malfoy pride that we're all sacrificing the use of our limbs in later life for, is that it?"  
  
"Oh don't be so melodramatic, Potter," Draco snapped, looking irritated. "And yes, my integrity is at stake here, if we don't win this match I think I'll kill myself."  
  
"And we can't have that, can we?" Harry remarked dryly. "Why would we ever want another captain who _doesn't_ think that crippling his teammates is the way to go?" He caught Draco's murderous look, and grinned. "Relax, Draco, Gryffindor has never been that much of a threat. If there's anything you should look out for, it's Ravenclaw."  
  
Draco shook his head. "You don't understand, do you? Beating Gryffindor means a whole lot more than beating Ravenclaw. It's this age-old rivalry between the two Houses, and I think I'll die of embarrassment if we don't win the match."  
  
"And who's being melodramatic now, hmm?"  
  
"Oh shut up." Draco ran a hand through his pale blond hair. He sighed and leaned back, staring off into space, plotting their Quidditch strategy over again in his head.  
  
Harry gave him a sidelong appraising look — he'd never seen Draco half as worried about anything else before. "Look, it's not that big a deal, all right? Stop fretting."  
  
Draco glared at Harry. "I'm not _fretting_," he snapped peevishly, as if that was an extremely girlish thing to do. "I'm just thinking, that's all."  
  
"Oh, believe me, if that's 'thinking', your head would have combusted years ago."  
  
"All right! I admit it!" Draco raked his hand through his hair again, another indication of his stressed state of mind. "I'm extremely worried about this match, all right? It's only two days away, and look at what happened at practice today — that silly jerk Rayfield hit the Bludger right at our own Keeper! Our team is _not_ ready for this!"  
  
"The only reason he mis-hit the Bludger was because you kept yelling instructions at him and he couldn't concentrate," Harry pointed out reasonably. Draco had become increasingly obsessive during practice sessions of late — probably the only one who escaped unscathed from his criticism was Harry, because he was just a simply exceptional Seeker. "Our team is good — everyone knows that. We don't need to charm the brooms to win."  
  
"Yes, we do." Draco's voice was muffled; he'd buried his face in his hands and was massaging his temples. "I need every sort of assurance I can get that we'll definitely win this match."  
  
Harry wondered if Draco was bordering a nervous breakdown. He allowed himself a secret smile — a lot of people would be surprised to see Draco like this. To the rest of the school, Draco Malfoy was a composed, poised student, a natural leader, calm in all situations. Well, it looked like a Quidditch match against Gryffindor wasn't one of them.  
  
"Tomorrow night," Draco said abruptly, without looking up.   
  
"What?" Harry cast a worried glance at Draco — he could detect the steely note in his voice, and that usually meant trouble because there would be virtually no way of talking Draco out of it, whatever it was.  
  
"The brooms. I know a charm that'll make our brooms move faster, with more precision and quicker reaction time." Draco looked up, and there was a fixed look of determination in his grey eyes.   
  
"Faster?" Harry gave a long-suffering sigh. "You've already got a Firebolt 2000, Draco, the best there is in the market. I've got a Firebolt, too, the second-latest model at least. Any faster and we'll shoot straight to Mars on kick-off."  
  
Draco looked agitated. "That's not the point. The point is that we'll have a considerable edge over Gryffindor if our brooms move faster and respond quicker. We can zip around and they'll spend most of their time chasing us."  
  
"We already zip around and they already spend most of their time chasing us," Harry pointed out, remembering their last match against Gryffindor in the previous season; Slytherin had won 250-20. Of course, Harry had caught the Snitch. "We already win on talent, Draco, and that's more important than fast brooms, which we incidentally also have."   
  
It was almost amusing, Harry realised, that he was sitting here trying to coax Draco Malfoy into being rational. Harry'd never quite thought himself fitting the role of the clear-minded, sensible one. On any other occasion, if Draco was being so stubborn and mulish about anything else, Harry would've just told him to shut up and go boil his head. But now Harry could empathise with Draco, in a way — Quidditch meant a lot to both of them, and the responsibility of defending the Quidditch Cup for Slytherin was quite a weighty burden on Draco, as the captain.   
  
Draco shook his head obstinately. "I'm going to do it anyway," he said adamantly, and from the steadfast look in his eyes, Harry knew there was no talking him out of it.   
  
"It's a stupid thing to do," Harry warned anyway. "If we get caught..."  
  
"We won't get caught," Draco said confidently, his tone complacent. "They already _expect_ Firebolts to go fast, they won't notice that it's a bit faster than it should be." He raised his eyes to meet Harry's, issuing a silent challenge. "So are you with me, or do I have to go alone?"  
  
Harry sighed. Draco was being very fanatical about this. But he really didn't want Draco to have to do the spell all by himself, and he'd feel quite bad if Draco got caught because he didn't have anyone to look out for him. They couldn't afford their best Chaser to be disqualified just before the game, or worse, have Slytherin docked points for attempting to cheat. And Harry _did _want Slytherin to win the match... just to be sure...  
  
"All right," he said reluctantly. He fixed Draco with a stern look. "But _no_ sabotaging of the Gryffindor brooms, you hear?"  
  
Draco looked slightly crestfallen. "That was next on the agenda, actually."  
  
"_No._" Harry said firmly, shaking his head. He wasn't going to back down on this. "There's no way I'm going to let you do that, all right? That's just downright unethical, unprofessional... that's cheating."  
  
"Slytherins always cheat," Draco said airily, as if that was as natural as playing Quidditch. He wanted to point out that charming their own brooms was tantamount to cheating as well, but thought better of it; Harry was sceptical enough as it was.  
  
"Well, I'm not going to do that." Harry was unyielding, and he stared hard at Draco. "Come on, Malfoy, don't you want to win in your own right? Don't you want to have the feeling of satisfaction that you're _better_ than them, even without making their brooms explode?"  
  
Draco waved his hand dismissively. "I don't need all that crap, I just need to _win._ I need to win, and really flatten them by a huge margin."  
  
"If you want me to come with you, we are _not_ touching the Gryffindor brooms," Harry said flatly. There was no room for negotiation in his tone, and Draco knew it.  
  
"Fine," Draco finally conceded, although very unwillingly. He wondered if he could put a quick hex on the Gryffindor brooms while Harry wasn't looking. "We'll just fix the spell on our own brooms, all right?"  
  
Harry gave Draco a dubious look; Draco's reply was almost too glib to be trusted. "I mean it, you know—"  
  
"All right already!" Draco cut him off impatiently. "Stop nagging, Potter, you're becoming like an old man."  
  
Harry looked sharply at Draco, and crossed his arms over his chest. "Say you won't sabotage Gryffindor's brooms." Draco returned a mutinous look, but Harry persisted. "Go on, say it, or I'm not coming with you tomorrow night."  
  
Draco sighed. As much as he hated to admit it, he really wanted Harry to come with him and help him out with the charm — Harry was good with spells, and he could serve as a useful lookout. Draco just wished Harry wasn't being such a stiff about hexing the other brooms.   
  
"All right, all right," Draco raised both his palms in mock surrender, and offered a conciliatory smile. "I promise. There, you happy now?"  
  
"You're just being extremely paranoid about this whole thing, you know that Draco?"  
  
"Yeah, whatever." Draco replied broodingly, looking distracted again.  
  
Harry shook his head as he got up, dusted off his robes and headed to their dungeon dormitory. He cast a backward glance at Draco, who had lapsed back into deep thought, probably about what they were going to sneak out and do tomorrow night.   
  
Harry smiled wryly, and wondered why he even made Draco swear not to hex the brooms — he probably had his toes crossed.  
  
Since when did a promise from Draco Malfoy count for very much, anyway?  
  
  


* * * * * * *

  
  
It was still fairly dark outside, and the merest shades of the dawning day were beginning to diffuse across the inky night sky. There was a tranquil stillness all around, save for the quiet chirping of crickets or the soft hooting of hunting owls, and instead of being eerie, the silence felt strangely comforting.  
  
Lupin stepped softly out of his office, walking down the darkened corridors out onto the open grounds of Hogwarts. Sleep had evaded him for the entire night, and his body was starting to feel sore from his constant tossing and turning. Frankly, he'd been deprived of a decent night's sleep ever since he saw Peter Pettigrew lurking around in the Gryffindor dormitory.  
  
Lupin strolled along the edge of the Quidditch pitch, the grass rustling softly under his otherwise noiseless footsteps. It was a gift borne of his other nature, Lupin thought, his ability to prowl the field without disturbing anything, not even a butterfly resting atop a curving blade of long grass.   
  
He continued walking silently until he reached the boundary of the Forbidden Forest. There he picked a tree just outside of the Forest and sat down at the foot of it, leaning against the rough, knobbly bark of the trunk. It pricked his back, but he didn't mind. Lupin stretched out his legs, and sat there resting, thinking.  
  
He liked the darkness. It wasn't a very enlightening quality, to have such an affinity for the darkness, but Lupin knew that was the truth. He wondered if it due to his being a werewolf — living in the darkness was his second nature, his primal calling. He came alive in the darkness, and ironically, often it was in the blackness of night that he could best think things through clearly. The silence welcomed his pondering thoughts, and afforded him some clarity of mind.  
  
He looked out at the Forbidden Forest, which looked so much more enticing and alluring hooded in the blackened night. He still remembered it vividly, every beaten path and running creek, as if he had traversed through it only the month before. But it had been years since he last roved the Forest as a wolf, in the company of Padfoot, Wormtail and Prongs, of course.  
  
But now, Remus reflected thoughtfully, even if he was given another chance to run wild in the Forest, he wasn't sure he wanted to anymore, no matter how exciting it still was, no matter how he loved the freedom to explore where he wished, to meet the interesting and exotic denizens inhabiting the Forest. It would be too painful to remember the adventures he shared with his friends, his friends who were no longer by his side.  
  
Remus closed his eyes and sighed. Dumbledore had already gone to speak with Crouch, and he knew that the matter would be expedited under Dumbledore's insistence. That would mean that Sirius would be released shortly, and very soon, he'd have the chance to speak with his old friend again.  
  
And deep down inside, Remus looked forward to it.  
  
  


* * * * * * *

  
  
Lucius Malfoy paced back and forth in his study, sleepless even at the break of dawn. He'd gotten out of bed about an hour earlier, unable to stand Narcissa's soft, contented snores when even the briefest sleep eluded him. If he didn't get out of the bedroom, he might be strongly tempted to shake her awake and yell, "Dammit! Why are you sleeping so soundly? What are we going to do about Draco, and that wretched Harry Potter?"  
  
His entire reputation hinged on this one single assignment, and Lucius Malfoy wasn't going to let his master down.  
  
"What to do, what to do," he muttered, resuming his mindless pacing, absently counting the number of steps it took to walk the length of his office; twenty-nine. It was infuriatingly odd; just one short of an even thirty. "How the hell am I supposed to get Harry Potter _alive?_ It'd be altogether a lot easier if I could just deliver his bloody carcass."   
  
Lucius thought of the common phrase, 'Wanted: Alive Or Dead'. He wished it was so easy — but he knew that the Dark Lord wouldn't reward him at all if he served up Harry Potter's corpse; he might even get killed or punished for not following specific instructions, and punishment from the Dark Lord was sometimes even worse than death.  
  
He sighed, frustrated. His meeting with Voldemort hadn't yielded quite as much as Lucius had hoped. He'd been expecting some more information about what Voldemort wanted with Draco — Lucius had nothing but a few cryptic words from his master before, and even those scarce words excited him immensely.  
  
The Dark Lord had mentioned something about an _heir_, in connection with Draco. Lucius swiftly put the pieces together — could Draco possibly be the heir that his master was searching for? The Heir of Slytherin? If his son was the one, Lucius was almost giddy with the thought of the amount of praise and recognition he would receive. Father of the Heir — what more could he ask? And for giving Draco over to serve the Dark Lord, he would be rewarded magnificently.   
  
But unfortunately, Voldemort seemed unwilling to divulge any more information regarding his plans for Draco until he, Lucius, came up with an idea of how to trap Harry Potter.   
  
"Damn you, blasted Potter!" Lucius spat, kicking furiously at the base of his huge mahogany table; a small splinter of wood chipped off, and a sharp pain flamed up his toe. Lucius cursed heatedly again, hobbling over to his leather armchair and slumping down in it.  
  
He had never been good at waiting. He needed to know that Draco was indeed the one, as Lucius was almost positively sure he was. Draco had everything it took to be great, to be a leader — an ambition for excellence with a cunning mind to match, as well as undeniably good looks — just like his father, of course. Grand and illustrious plans for his son were already beginning to formulate in Lucius' mind.   
  
Lucius couldn't suppress a triumphant, satisfied smile.   
  
Yes, his Draco was indeed destined for greatness.  
  
  


* * * * * * *

  
  
When dawn finally broke in brilliant streaks of golden daylight suffusing across the withering darkness, Remus slowly got to his feet. It was quite a wonder how he wasn't stiff from staying in a fixed position for so long. Yet another gift derived from his alternate existence as a wolf, Lupin mused, as he strolled along the fence, away from the Forbidden Forest, which lost some of its mystical appeal as sunlight shone forth.  
  
Movement stirred as the day arrived; birds woke to the freshness of morning and twittered cheerfully, excited by the beckoning call of whirring crickets in the bushes. As he made his way back to his office, Lupin met a group of Gryffindor Quidditch players, sleepy-eyed as they trudged toward the pitch for early morning practice. There was an important match against Slytherin the following day, and Lupin greeted them cordially and wished them a good practice session before parting ways.  
  
Lupin sensed the presence even as he neared his office; foreign, yet strangely familiar. His honed instincts came alive, and he stiffened. Very cautiously, he stretched out his hand and turned the doorknob quietly. He pushed open the door and looked inside, his body tense with anticipation, his eyes darting around.  
  
He let out a soft gasp of surprise as his eyes fell on the sofa adjacent to his desk, and almost tripped over the fringe of the rug draped across the floor.  
  
Curled up on the cushions was a large, black dog, its muzzle resting between its front paws, one of which was shackled with a thin silver band. It raised its head when Remus entered, but didn't react otherwise. It seemed to have sensed Remus coming as well, and didn't look at all surprised; it stared back at Remus, whose face was pale with shock, its mournful black eyes unblinking.  
  
Remus stood rooted to the spot for quite a long time, his foot still partially snagged by the rug, one hand gripping the back of a chair for support. It only occurred to him several moments later to shut the door, and he gave it a feeble kick with his heel.  
  
Lupin had expected his arrival, but even then, he still couldn't hide his astonishment. It was so strange seeing him again, the familiar dark, hulking presence that Remus had been so used to seeing running alongside him.   
  
"Sirius?" he whispered, his voice hoarse. The name sounded awkward and alien; it was so often spoken of contemptuously, _that Sirius Black, who betrayed his friends, who caused James and Lily's death._   
  
Remus swallowed hard, and tried again. "Padfoot?"  
  
The dog let out a soft, weary growl. Remus blinked, and the next moment a grown man sat before him, hunched on the sofa where the dog once sat. Another involuntary exclamation escaped Remus' lips as he stared at Sirius in undisguised horror.  
  
Sirius was very thin, almost to the point of being emaciated. His skin was an unhealthy, sallow tone; it reminded Lupin of Snape's complexion, which wasn't very complimentary to the Potions master at all. Sirius' hair was messy and unkempt, even more ruffled since he'd changed back from being a dog. The limp black locks framed his fragile face, making him look thinner than ever. And what jarred Remus the most was Sirius' eyes: they were deadened and hollow, completely devoid of the vibrance and emotion of the Sirius he once knew.  
  
The glint of metal that braceleted Sirius' bony wrist caught the virgin sunlight, drawing Remus' attention. Remus looked at it curiously, wondering what it was.  
  
Sirius noticed his inquisitive glance. "It's a Restraining Band," he explained quietly. His voice was scratchy, as if he'd just recovered from losing his voice, which wasn't far from the truth — Azkaban took a person's voice in a very different way.   
  
Sirius looked calmly at Remus, then continued in a casual, detached tone, "It makes sure that if I escape, I don't get very far — not in one piece, at least. The furthest-flung body part has been known to reach distances of up to a mile."  
  
Remus looked shocked; it was starting to be a common expression for him this morning. "Dumbledore made you wear that?"  
  
"He holds the Activator," Sirius answered, and his expression softened slightly at the mention of Dumbledore. "The only reason I allowed them to put it on me without scratching them bloody." He cast a casual, almost offhand look at the band encircling his wrist. "It's not the most flattering accessory, I must say."  
  
Sirius' calmness was getting unnerving. Lupin took a tentative step forward, still eyeing him watchfully. It was hard to explain; Sirius looked so different, yet felt the same. The fact that Sirius Black, notorious and feared prisoner of Azkaban, was sitting right there in his office hadn't quite sunk in yet.  
  
Sirius gave him a tired look, then sighed. "You can take a step or two closer, Remus, I don't have a wand to blast you into oblivion with." He raised his palms by way of gesture, and the metal band glinted sharply in the sunlight again. "And I won't bite, because that's just downright clichéd."  
  
Lupin's eyes narrowed. Sirius' trademark dry wit was strangely incongruous to the situation. "Don't make jokes like that, Sirius." He frowned, although he took a subconscious step forward. "And that's not the point, anyway."  
  
"What _is_ the point, really?" Sirius asked, looking pointedly at Lupin. "Why did you bring me here to talk about? Care to enlighten me? Is this about James and Lily again? Because I don't think I can take any more of that, at least not from you, of all persons."  
  
Lupin blinked. "Dumbledore didn't tell you?"  
  
Sirius shook his head. "He said that it'd be better if you told me personally." He shot Lupin a questioning look, but said nothing more.  
  
Lupin groaned. How did Dumbledore expect him to explain everything, _everything_ to Sirius, all by himself? There was still such a divergent rift between them — even the simplest, most mundane conversation was proving quite excruciating, for Lupin at least.  
  
Lupin drew a deep breath, sneaking a glance at Sirius, who was sitting on the sofa, patiently waiting. He wore a serene, mildly expectant expression, but if Remus looked hard enough, he could see the shadows of hollow pain etched into Sirius' worn face, the ghostly scars of his existence in Azkaban.   
  
And for the countless hours he'd spent thinking about this meeting with Sirius, Lupin had never gone so far as to actually think about what he wanted to say. Whether to tell, or to ask, to answer or to listen. There were just too many things that were too intricately entwined — it was like a precarious equilibrium, you couldn't just take one item down for discussion without everything else coming crashing down along with it.  
  
Sirius sat rigidly on the sofa, feeling distinctly uncomfortable. He didn't know if the discomfort was physical or otherwise; his body was unaccustomed to such a soft, cushioned seat, far too used to the hard cold floor back in his cell in Azkaban.  
  
_Even miles away from there, I still can't stop thinking about it,_ Sirius reflected grimly. _This is how it kills you — it never lets you forget._   
  
His release had come as an abrupt surprise; late last night, while he was lying sleepless on the damp, cold floor, with nothing but the chilling darkness for company, a Ministry officer had approached his cell with two Dementors in tow. For a fleeting, panicked moment, Sirius had deliriously wondered if they'd changed his sentence to that of receiving the fatal Kiss. His mind had leapt up and recoiled; his body had remained stiff and sluggish on the floor, unresisting. He knew that there was nowhere to run, and no way to hide.  
  
His fears evaporated momentarily when the Ministry wizard informed him about his temporary release, 'pending further investigations into your case.' _Bullshit_, Sirius had thought disgustedly. _Reconsidering my case fifteen years after I was sentenced? Efficient judicial system they're running out there.  
  
_He'd slowly risen to his feet, his limbs numbed and recalcitrant, deadened like the rest of his body. In Azkaban, feeling physical pain had become as common as breathing air — which was probably why a lot of the prisoners stopped doing both within their first year of incarceration. Sirius had learned to handle it, however; it was the subtle, insidious corrosion that he feared the most, that he summoned every ounce of willpower to constantly battle.   
  
Sirius had shuffled along the dank, darkened corridors flanked by the two Dementors, feeling the waves of icy hopelessness emanating from them; he'd shivered, the unbearable cold gnawing at his bones. The Ministry wizard had looked worse for wear, too — he talked in a high-pitched, unnatural voice, and seemed scared to death by either Sirius or the Dementors. There had been a wild look of terror in the young wizard's eyes as he scuttled out of the fortress as fast as he could. He then handed Sirius a Portkey, and hastily Disapparated himself.  
  
The Portkey had taken Sirius straight to a vaguely familiar office — and judging from the one of the two figures seated in the room, it surmised that it was Bartemius Crouch's office. Sirius had felt a jolt of genuine surprise run through him as he focused his eyes on the other person — Albus Dumbledore.  
  
Crouch had looked mutinous throughout their brief meeting; he ordered for two Restraining Bands to be placed on Sirius, but Dumbledore had staunchly refused ("Detonating _one _Band is enough to reduce the person wearing it and a ten-foot radius around him to ashes — I think you've sufficiently proved your point, Crouch."). They'd initially attached the Retraining Band around Sirius' neck, like a cruel, grotesque necklace, but Dumbledore had insisted it be taken off and placed around his wrist instead ("Your purpose is to restrain him, Crouch, not to humiliate him.").  
  
He'd been brought to Hogwarts at the crack of dawn — Dumbledore went to fetch Lupin, but had found his office vacated. Sirius had secretly been amused to learn that Remus was a teacher at Hogwarts — thinking of all the pranks they'd pulled together back at school, it was a marvel that Remus could take on a position of responsibility now.   
  
Dumbledore had suggested he wait for Remus to return to his office, and Sirius had obliged. He melted into the form of a dog and sat on the sofa, patiently awaiting Lupin's return.  
  
Now, he rested his even gaze on Lupin, who seemed to have great difficulty finding words to convey his thoughts.   
  
Finally, Lupin blurted out, "Peter's alive, Sirius."  
  
Sirius nodded calmly. "I know."  
  
"Then why didn't you _say_ something?" Lupin exploded, giving Sirius a wild look of disbelief. "Why didn't you tell us that you never killed him? Why did you just let them—" Lupin broke off, finding it too painful to speak the words. He imagined how much worse it was for Sirius to have _lived_ the lie.  
  
Sirius gave a wry, resigned smile. "You wouldn't have believed me, anyway. Pettigrew's sliced finger, his bloodstained robes, the streetful of dead Muggles, pandemonium everywhere... there was no way you would've believed me, Remus, not even you."  
  
"You never gave me a chance to, did you?" Lupin's eyes shimmered with bitter emotion.  
  
"Put it this way — I could do with one less friend calling me a liar or a traitor." Sirius gave a smile, but Remus saw it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Helped me remember you better, too — not as one who yelled insults at me, or looked at me like I was the scum of the earth."  
  
"James and Lily, then? Who's responsible?" Lupin asked tightly, almost fearing the response.   
  
A pained expression flickered across Sirius' impassive features, warming the empty void in his eyes. Sirius sighed, and his quiet voice reverberated around the silent room.   
  
"I would never have sold them out, Remus," he said sadly, with a slight shake of his head. "_I_ was the one who persuaded James to change to Peter as their Secret-Keeper at the last moment — I thought it would be the perfect decoy, the best—" Sirius' voice trembled, and he paused to draw a breath.  
  
"I was wrong. Peter was the spy all along. He betrayed James and Lily to Voldemort." Sirius' voice was toneless, and their was a look of unmistakable anguish in his darkening eyes. "I managed to find him afterward, and confronted him. He cut off his own finger, blew the street apart with his wand behind his back, then disappeared into the sewers as a rat. He's been alive, all this while, in hiding."  
  
"And this is the whole truth about what really happened that night?" Remus' tone wasn't challenging; it was merely questioning.  
  
"This is the truth." Sirius' voice held firm, and so did his gaze. "I told this account to a few of the Ministry wizards who apprehended me — they thought I was insane and just locked me up. No one listened, so in the end I gave up."  
  
The pain in Lupin's eyes softened to a pale shade of sadness. "You should never give up on the truth, Sirius," he said softly.  
  
Sirius sighed. "I gave that up along with a lot of other things, Remus." He shrugged. "It takes too much effort to hold on to things you know you will never have again. Your life — existence in Azkaban couldn't appropriately be term as living. Your friends. Your freedom."  
  
"And that's not true, either." Remus waved his hand in a brief gesture, indicating at the both of them. "You're here now."  
  
"I may have given up on the truth, Remus, but I never gave up hope, and that's why I'm even alive to _be _here now." Sirius said simply. He shook his head helplessly — he still couldn't stop thinking about it. "Azkaban wears you down in an entirely different way. It eats at your soul, corroding it, bit by bit, until you don't even know yourself any longer. It's like living in a den of ravenous lions, and all you can do is scream so you can't hear the roaring at the back of your mind, so you can keep your own demons at bay."  
  
"And that way the lions don't get to you?" Lupin asked softly, drawing closer and sitting down on the armrest of the sofa.   
  
Sirius gave a humourless smile. "Of course they do. It's just a matter of delaying the inevitable, that's all."  
  
"And were we too late?" Lupin couldn't withhold the sombre question. He wanted to reach out and touch Sirius' shoulder, to offer him some tangible comfort, but for some reason he held back.  
  
Sirius shrugged. "I don't know. It's hard to tell. People who are dying often don't know they are. Bleeding from an invisible wound is hard to gauge."  
  
"I wish you could've—" Lupin started, then swallowed his own words. It was too painful to say them, for him and even more so for Sirius. Agonising over the past could only waste away the future.   
  
And he believed Sirius. He didn't know why, but he just did. It wasn't rational at all — it was the heart speaking louder than the mind, something that Remus rarely allowed. It was a certain gut feeling that couldn't be quantified, which told him to trust Sirius, that sometimes unfortunate coincidences happened, that only the real truth could survive fifteen years in a living hell and still hold true.  
  
Suddenly seemed like the most natural thing in the world, the same way he'd unequivocally trusted Sirius when they were younger, when Sirius had said, "Hop off the tower; you won't crash." And he trusted Sirius then, and he had jumped, and he hadn't crashed. (Sirius had been trying out an Invisible Netting Spell; they both got detention for 'recklessly endangering their lives', but Remus knew that if Sirius had asked him to, there really wasn't any danger at all.)  
  
Nothing changed since then. And Remus believed him.  
  
"How's Harry?" Sirius suddenly asked, raising his sunken eyes to look at Remus. His voice was hoarser than before, as if his throat was slightly constricted. "He's in Hogwarts now, I think? I believe he's sixteen this year, unless that coma of mine lasted longer than I thought."  
  
"You were in a coma?" Remus' eyebrow shot up, and his eyes clouded with concern.  
  
"Bumped my head and knocked myself unconscious for a bit," Sirius said, with a nonchalant shrug. The truth be told, Sirius thought bitterly, the entire time in Azkaban was like being in a coma — a waking sleep filled with nothing but troubled dreams and living nightmares.   
  
He waved his hand almost dismissively, although Remus still saw the pain that lived in Sirius' darting eyes. "You haven't answered my question — how's Harry? Is he here in Hogwarts?"  
  
"Yes, he's in Hogwarts — he's started his sixth year." Remus hesitated — he really didn't want to tell Sirius that Harry had been put in Slytherin. The deadened look in Sirius' eyes was still too stark, and Remus had a feeling knowing his godson was a Slytherin wasn't going to breathe much more life into him.   
  
So all he did was force a smile and say reassuringly, "Harry's fine, Sirius. I think Dumbledore will let you talk to him if you want to."  
  
"And if _he_ wants to," Sirius added, almost morosely. "Don't think he'll be falling over himself to meet the godfather who supposedly caused his parents' death."  
  
Remus exhaled in relief when Sirius didn't ask which House Harry was put in — he must have assumed, as Remus did, that Harry was Sorted into Gryffindor. Looking at Sirius' glum expression, Remus thought of cheering him up by telling him how good Harry was at Quidditch; then he remembered that Harry was the _Slytherin_ Seeker and decided against it.  
  
Sirius leaned back, his frail frame resting against the broad sofa. He looked exhausted, although from a weariness that couldn't be attributed to physical fatigue. He looked tiredly at Remus for a moment, then said, " thought about Harry a lot, while I was Azkaban — I know Voldemort didn't kill him, that he went to live with Lily's Muggle folks after James and Lily died." Off Remus' raised eyebrow, he explained, "I met Hagrid outside the house, he was taking little Harry away."  
  
"Not so 'little' now," Remus pointed out, with a small smile.  
  
Sirius didn't return the smile; he continued talking slowly, as if speaking right from his soul. "There weren't many things for me to hold on to in Azkaban, and I often thought about Harry — how he was growing up, whether he was looking more and more like James, although I'd say he definitely has Lily's eyes."   
  
Sirius paused, the dull look still hooding his black eyes. "I'd really like to meet him, Remus."  
  
It pained Remus each time Sirius talked about Azkaban — he didn't dare think how much more it hurt for Sirius himself. It was agonising to see the wooden expression in Sirius' eyes, which used to glint mischievously ever so often. That carefree innocence was gone, and a matured weariness stood in its place; different, yet heartbreaking similar.  
  
Sirius was right. He hadn't escaped unscathed from Azkaban; there was a little part of his soul that was given to the lions, lost forever.  
  
Remus saw an involuntary shudder chill through his friend's gaunt body, and he reflexively shrugged off his outer set of robes and gave it to Sirius. "Take this, put it on. It's quite cold in here."  
  
Sirius gave him a thoughtful look, then reached out and accepted the robes.   
  
"No, Remus," he said, almost bitterly, and touched his hand to his own chest, over his heart. "It's cold in _here._"  
  
Remus stared hopelessly at Sirius as he draped the robes over his thin shoulders, covering the ragged garments that clothed his skinny body, shielding away a coldness that was borne from within. And he felt so helpless, so useless, sitting so near his friend yet being unable to soothe his pain, a pain that Remus knew he could never even begin to understand.   
  
"I'm sorry, Sirius," Remus fought to keep his voice from choking with emotion, but he couldn't help it. He felt so bad, so horribly, horribly bad. He sucked in a deep breath and tried to control himself; his words faltered just when he needed so desperately to say something, to say the right thing.  
  
Sirius returned a pensive look. "Sorry about what, Remus?" His tone bore no reproach, and his eyes watched Lupin sincerely.  
  
Sirius regarded his friend thoughtfully; Remus still looked the same, after all this years, save for a few wisps of greying hair and dark rings of prolonged weariness encircling his blue-grey eyes. There was so much time lost between them, and this was just the beginning of a road of painful mending for them both. There were still so many things left unsaid, and Sirius knew that this wasn't the time for them to be spoken.   
  
It was not his place to offer Remus forgiveness. They had all lost, to different degrees, some ways more painful than others. He didn't hold any grudge against his friend, as long as Remus no longer held him responsible for James and Lily's death. This wasn't a time for guilt, or blame; it was a time for healing, and moving on.  
  
Lupin felt Sirius' expectant gaze still upon him and tried to find the words to express his sentiments; but he eventually gave up, and just shook his head with a helpless shrug.  
  
"Everything." He smiled ruefully. "I'm sorry, Padfoot."  
  
Sirius gave Remus a genuine smile, touched with a hint of sadness and regret. "So am I."  
  
  


* * * * * * *

  
  
Night had fallen; Ron wearily made his way back to Gryffindor Tower, his robes caked with mud from the Quidditch pitch. Every muscle in his body was seared with an aching fatigue from practicing morning and night — quite a harebrained strategy on the part of their captain, really, since now Ron wasn't sure his limbs would be able to move at all for the match tomorrow.  
  
Gryffindor vs. Slytherin always raised such a furore each year whenever it rolled by. It was the most potentially explosive match in the season, and House pride ran unusually high as the age-old rivalry was taken onto the pitch and battled out with feverish ardour. Ron was ashamed to admit that it hadn't been quite as climactic as it used to be — in recent years, Gryffindor had been, mercifully put, steamrollered.   
  
_If only Harry Potter had been in Gryffindor_, Ron thought grudgingly, a note of wistfulness in his voice as he remembered how he'd expected himself and Harry to be in the same House. _We'd probably swipe the Quidditch and House Cup from Slytherin. _  
  
It was common knowledge to everyone that Harry Potter was an extremely gifted Seeker — Slytherin had never suffered a defeat with him on the team. The last time Ron remembered Slytherin ever losing was when Draco Malfoy had taken over from an injured Harry — he'd ended up crashing very unceremoniously into a tree and knocking Filch, who'd been decorating it for Christmas, to the ground. Ron had laughed about it for a whole week after, much to Malfoy's chagrin.  
  
The Gryffindor team had practiced very hard for the upcoming match, but Ron knew the chances for victory were slim. Not with Harry in top form as the Slytherin Seeker. Malfoy had been relegated to the role of Chaser, but unfortunately for Ron, he was much better a Chaser than he had been a Seeker. As Beater, Ron had his work cut out for him tomorrow, and it was going to be no less than a mammoth task to mark Malfoy.   
  
_He's even got a Firebolt 2000_, Ron thought enviously. _And my broom was probably what the Stone Age people used to sweep out their caves.  
  
_He'd taken over the position of Beater from Fred and George, and Ron was finding it very hard to emulate them. They were the last of a generation of Gryffindor players who could at least hold their own against Slytherin — the rest of them had already graduated in previous years. The new blood was finding it hard even to keep up with the standard set by their predecessors, let alone match Slytherin's quality. And with Harry Potter as Seeker, it was game, set, match for Slytherin.  
  
When he crawled through the portrait hole into the Gryffindor common room after a nice hot shower, Ron saw Hermione sitting at a table by the fireplace, working industriously on her homework. The table was stacked with Potion textbooks — Ron remembered with a groan that the _next_ Potions assignment was falling due.  
  
When she saw him, she looked up and gave him a bright smile. "How was practice?"  
  
"Great, really," Ron answered, so tired that his words emerged as a slur. "Especially if your idea of fun is having your limbs exerted until they're about to come unhinged, then yes, it was a very enjoyable practice session." He flung himself onto a beanbag lying next to Hermione's chair. "Ugh, I'm sore."  
  
Hermione smiled. "There's actually such a thing in real life, you know — it's a form of Chinese torture. They strap you down and stretch your limbs in opposite directions, until either your resolve or your joints give way."   
  
"I think I'll stick with Quidditch, thanks, this way I at least get a shot at slamming a Bludger into Malfoy's face."  
  
"Harry's playing Seeker for Slytherin again, I suppose?" Hermione asked innocently, although Ron noticed a slight twinkle in her eye as she spoke.  
  
He scowled. "He's the spine of the whole team, what d'you think?" He gave Hermione a sharp look — Harry was one of the most popular Quidditch players among the female students at Hogwarts. "And don't you go ogling at Harry throughout the whole match and forgetting who you're supposed to be supporting."  
  
Hermione grinned. "Not me you should be worrying about, more likely Ginny."  
  
"Yes, I'll have to talk to her about that soon." He nodded firmly, making a mental note.  
  
"What, about her fancying Harry?"  
  
"Fancying? More like undying, _unrequited_ love for him. A 'fancy' doesn't last for six years, mind." Ron sighed. "So don't you go hankering after Harry too, or I think I'll just ask for a transfer to Hufflepuff, since all the Gryffindor girls seem to be hopelessly devoted to Harry Potter."  
  
"Well, I don't even think Harry's the best looking player on the Slytherin team," Hermione stated with an affirmative air. "He's the nicest of them all, granted, not as obnoxious as the rest... I mean, he's cute, yes. Swoonsome, no."  
  
Ron quirked an eyebrow. "Harry Potter, not up to your lofty standards? Not the cutest Slytherin since Salazar himself?"  
  
"Pfft," Hermione scoffed. "Have you _seen_ Salazar Slytherin? If _he _was the definition of cute, the dictionary would spontaneously burst into flames."  
  
"All right, who exactly do you think is the most — _swoonsome_ of the Slytherins, then?"  
  
"Well," Hermione tilted her head in mock thoughtfulness, as if she was a connoisseur at an art gallery. "Let's see... I'll have to say... well now, he has the build, but _he _has the eyes, and the hair too—"  
  
An awful thought occurred to Ron. "It better not be Malfoy..." he began warningly, then caught the almost guilty smile on Hermione's face.   
  
"_Hermione_!" He stared at her in horror. "Not _Malfoy?_"  
  
Hermione grinned, then decided against giving Ron an apoplectic fit just when he was so dead tired he probably couldn't even make it to the hospital wing, although the idea was extremely inviting. "No, no, it's not Malfoy," she said smilingly, although her teasing tone of voice left much room for doubt.  
  
Ron looked as if he'd swallowed a few Cockroach Clusters whole. "You think Malfoy's _cute_?!"  
  
"I said no!" Hermione protested, although her tone was still laughing. "But c'mon, Ron, don't you know that half the girls in Hogwarts have or used to have a crush on Malfoy?"  
  
Ron looked as if he'd been presented with another full jar of Cockroach Clusters to eat. "And you're not one of them, are you? _Are_ you? Ugh, that is just revolting. You girls are either blind or masochists." He made a disgusted noise. "What on earth, or the rest of the known universe, do you see in Draco Malfoy?"  
  
Hermione looked slightly annoyed. "_I_ don't see anything in him, all right? His personality is fit to line a trash can, in my opinion, and inside he's rotten to the bone, but that doesn't change the fact that—" Hermione glanced at Ron, who seemed on the verge of a seizure, and fished for a less provocative term than _he sometimes looks pretty hot_, "—that he's quite easy on the eye, all right? Speaking absolutely _nothing _of him as a person."  
  
Ron still looked quite traumatised as he shook his head. "Girls. I'll never understand the lot of you."  
  
"Yep," said Hermione cheerfully, "that's what makes dating all the more fun. The culture shock."  
  
Ron was still shaking his head as he got to his feet. "Yes, well, you should start liking someone _normal_ for a change." He arched an eyebrow suggestively at Hermione, a grin playing on the edges of his lips.  
  
"Normal? Don't flatter yourself, Ron," Hermione shot back with a sporting grin. "But I'll settle for a little insanity on the side, that's far better than obnoxiousness."  
  
Ron seemed to be comforted by Hermione's pointed allusion to Draco Malfoy. "That's good to hear — I thought you'd gone off the deep end for good this time. Malfoy, _honestly._" He made another scornful sound. "I'll have nightmares for a week thinking about that."  
  
"Well, I'd better wish you sweet dreams, then." Hermione said, rolling her eyes; Ron was being so exaggerated about Malfoy.  
  
"Night, Hermione." Ron gave her a lopsided grin.  
  
She smiled back at him. "See you tomorrow. Rest up well for the match."  
  
Ron headed off toward the staircase leading to the boys' dormitory and wearily ascended it, still absently thinking about what Hermione had said about Malfoy. A mental image of Malfoy materialised in his mind — what _did_ girls see in him? He was just a pale, pointed-faced, arrogant little git. What so attractive about that?  
  
Well, at least Hermione had the sagacity to see past Malfoy's pretty-boy exterior for what he really was. That's what he liked about Hermione — she was not only smart but _sensible_, unlike other girls as Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil, both of whom were made substantially of giggles and nothing more.   
  
Ron slipped into the dorm — Neville was sound asleep, snoring loudly, while Dean and Seamus glared at Neville, looking disgruntled. When Ron came in, they gesticulated wildly at Neville, looking very annoyed, and mimed using a clothes peg to clamp his nostrils shut. Ron chuckled, shook his head and went to his own bed, collapsing down on it in an exhausted heap.  
  
It was only then did Ron realise he'd only had a quick sandwich before going for Quidditch practice in the evening, and that his stomach was growling. He groaned; there was really nothing more miserable than being dead tired on an empty stomach.  
  
Sighing, Ron dragged himself into a sitting position, reaching out a hand and rummaging through his bedside drawer, where he kept his secret stash of snacks. He dug under the scrolls of parchments and felt around — where was all his food? He'd just replenished it a couple of weeks back — he must've been peckish on more occasions than he thought...  
  
Finally his hand latched onto a Chocolate Frog, and he retrieved it. Slim pickings, but it was better than nothing, and he was too beat to bother digging through his cluttered drawer to look for the rest of the food. He quickly unwrapped the Frog, tossed the collector's card (Agrippa) aside, and hungrily gobbled it down. It tasted a tad funny, but he didn't care — expired chocolate was better than no chocolate at all.  
  
Dusting his hands off, Ron stretched, feeling his bones creaking, and wearily crawled under the covers. He closed his eyes, and despite Neville's trumpeting snores, he almost immediately drifted off into a deep sleep.  
  
  


* * * * * * *

  
  
The small jar of colourless potion carefully placed on the ledge suddenly glowed an intense, electric blue, and began bubbling and frothing with a low, steady hiss. Wormtail bolted upright and stared it at for a moment, his heart leaping. If Wormtail was living in the Greek era, he'd have jumped up and yelled, "Eureka!" (but thankfully he wasn't, because the streaking would just have been downright distasteful.)  
  
"Finally!" he exclaimed, clamouring to his feet and hurrying over as fast as his pudgy feet could carry him. With utmost care he picked up the vial of potion, now shimmering like liquid sapphire. He lifted it to eye level and inspected it — the charm was definitely in action. The potion had turned from completely clear to opaque, just like the spellbook had said.  
  
Wormtail smiled triumphantly. His plan was proceeding smoothly — and in the dead of the night, there'd be no obstructions to worry about. This spell required for potion to be imbibed, and that greatly reduced the efficacy of it, as compared to a wand-assisted charm. Wormtail had to make sure there was as little distraction as possible. This was his best chance, and he wasn't going to blow it.  
  
He raised a wordless toast to an unspoken cause, then brought the vial of fizzy blue potion to his lips. In a noisy gulp he tossed back the entire portion; it tasted mildly salty, and had a lingering bitter aftertaste.   
  
Wormtail drew a deep, satisfied breath, then padded over to sit on his own bed as he waited for the potion to take effect on him, as he collected his thoughts for his secret task ahead.   
  
The time had come, and he was going to prove to his master his true worth.   
  
  
  
~~~  
  



End file.
